Harry Potter and the Color of Magic
by Chardvignon
Summary: Harry Potter and Discworld Crossover! After defeating Voldemort and becoming an Auror, Harry's in need of training to think like a copper. His new trainer: Commander Sir Samuel Vimes of the Ankh Morpork City Watch. Generally canon compatible.
1. Introduction and Disclaimer

**Introduction **

Discworld/Harry Potter Crossover.

This fanfic posits a post-Voldemort universe in which Harry Potter has survived, and succeeded in his ambition to become an Auror. After a raid which backfires spectacularly, Senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt needs to have Harry re-trained to think like a copper. The only person he can trust? Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch.

Ships HP-HG.

**Author's Note**

I originally had an extremely long intro in which I discussed the state of fantasy writing in the UK today. Apparently, the boffins here at this website were unamused by it, and took it down. Should you be interested in reading it (which also may explain some of the comments from my reviewers) please e-mail me privately – listed in my profile – and I'll be happy to share it.

**Disclaimer**

All characters, likenesses, and places are the copyright of their original authors. "Harry Potter" copyright J.K. Rowling,Bloomsbury Press and its worldwide distribution partners. "Discworld" copyright Terry Pratchett, HarperCollins and its worldwide distribution partners.


	2. A Ticket to the Boneyard

**A/N Please read the full disclosures in Chapter One.**

_I should have known_, Harry Potter thought, _that it was not going to be my day_.

In fact, it could not be called _anyone's_ day.

Harry was certain he had locked the back door using the _colloportus_ charm; there should have been no way that anyone got through it. That left only one way out, the front door, and he had entered through the front by himself.

It was true, undoubtedly, that he was too early. He had forgotten to set his watch back on returning from France yesterday and thought he was running 30 minutes late, instead of 30 minutes too early. Owing to that, his colleagues had not gotten themselves into position, and so when he went in the front, they were not there to cover anyone who was running out.

They had expected to raid this shop to find out who was selling _phellus_ venom, a Class-A non-tradable substance, used by some delinquent wizards as a cheap high. Fred and George had heard rumours through one of their suppliers it might be coming from Brighton, and so here they all were. But when he informed the 10 members of the shop that this was an Auror's raid, they laughed, and let him look through the entire premises – meaning he saw, at that point, he had arrived too early, and the deal hadn't yet gone down. However, just before leaving, he spotted two of the shop keepers about to hex him. He ducked most of the hexes before immobilizing the few remaining staff, before he got hit with a nasty jinx in the back from one of the customers. Everyone else had fled out the front – unhindered – as the spells started flying, and rushed to a waiting lorry.

Fortunately, once customer somehow made it through the back door – which Harry swore he had locked tighter than Umbridge's … well, look, tightly, okay?

Seeing them dash into the van, Harry shot a series of fireballs at the van, which put out its rear tire, and had it crash, which had the added advantage of stunning most of the passengers (all of whom lived through their injured) and getting quite a nice load of _phellus_ to drop out the back, producing the evidence they needed.

Unfortunately, one of the fireballs missed the van entirely, and struck the gas main to the set of flats next the road.

The resulting fireball singed off Harry's eyebrows and caused enough property damage to require Harry and his colleagues – who had by now arrived and were trying to figure out just how Harry had managed this – to need to spend almost four hours _obliviating_ the memory of the muggles, none of whom were injured, but all of whom suddenly recalled that the van had struck the gas main when the driver negligently crashed into the wall.

"Must'a bloody been a drunk," said one to the reporters from ITV who happened to show up and film the conflagration.

All of which had led Harry – after a good hour in the Auror's trauma center, hidden in a secret recess of the Ministry of Magic – to the current meeting with his boss, Kingsley Shacklebolt, held of the Auror Division.

"How the hell did you defeat Tom Riddle, Harry? A first-year trainee would have better success than you in most of your cases," Shacklebolt fumed.

Harry blushed and looked down, in part because he felt that Shacklebolt had a point. Some of the routine of being an Auror was vital, and Harry wasn't that great at it. _I wonder if I should have listened more closely to Hermione all those years in Hogwarts_, he thought glumly.

"You listening to me, Potter?" Shacklebolt growled.

"Sir. Yes, Sir," Harry said, staring straight at his feet.

"Sit down, Potter," Shacklebolt said, sliding open his desk drawer. He took out a bottle of firewhiskey that was about half full, and splashed out two generous measures and curtly pushed one at Harry. Harry drank down a small sip. Kingsley drank down a large one.

"What the hell are we going to do with you, Potter? You're the greatest spellcaster I've known since Dumbledore. I mean, you can do things with a wand, that damn it, you aren't _supposed_ to be able to do. But when it comes to being an Auror …

"Harry, being an Auror is sort of like a combination of being a police officer, a soldier, a spy, and a politician. You have to be able to see some balance. You can't just go blasting in, and you also have to follow the rules."

"I understand, sir." Harry said.

"No, Harry you really don't. Not that I think that's a bad thing, mind. But you need to learn, all over again," Shacklebolt said.

"You're not going to make me run through the training program again, are you sir?" Harry shuddered.

"No," Shacklebolt said. "I think that our training program is too inadequate for someone such as you. So I'm going to send you on secondment to someone who I think can train you. You'll leave in three days, and spend no less than three months working as a watchman in the city I'm sending you."

Shacklebolt reached back into the recessess of his desk and picked out a giant sealed manila folder, which he tossed to Harry. "You'll find a portkey inside – shaped like a pen – and a full dossier of information, along with a personal letter than you will need to take to your temporary commanding officer. Under no circumstances are you to reveal where you are from to anyone, although the commander has been briefed on you. Understood?"

Harry knew that tone very well, and got to his feet. He drained the glass of firewhisky and picked up the dossier. "Understood, sir."

"Dismissed, Potter."

Harry walked out of the office, and back to his own office in the Ministry of Magic. He closed the roll-top on his desk, picked up a small package on his chair, and walked to the Ministry Lobby. He placed his day tag in the familiar slot.

"Night, there, Mr. Potter," called Edgid Froom, the night guard.

"Night," said Harry, wearily, and went to the apparation point to apparate back to his flat.

He arrived in his front hallway and set things down on the table. Hermione Granger walked in from the sitting room and eyed him carefully. "Tough day, love?" she asked, walking in and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"You have no idea," Harry said, embracing her.

"Well, give me one, then," Hermione said.

"I have to leave in three days to do a 90-day secondment outside of London," Harry said.

"_What_?" Hermoine said, feeling as if she had just received a blow. "Where?"

"Generally we say, 'who, when and why,' after that," Harry said, dejected but still trying for humor. He tore open the envelope, and found a sealed letter with the Ministry of Magic stamp.

_Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch_

_Pseudopolis Yard_

_Brass Bridge Lane_

_Central, Ankh-Morpork, DW_

"Ankh-Morpork, wherever that is," Harry said.

"I've got a _bad_ feeling about this," Hermione said.


	3. Hope to Die

**A/N Please review the summary and disclaimers in Chapter One.**

As was usual, Harry was up first and had the coffee brewed before Hermione was fully awake. Despite the fact that he could transfigure or glamour a cup in seconds with magic, he felt that it never had the taste the real stuff did.

True to his morning ritual, he had spread out the file Shacklebolt had given him the night before, and was leafing through its contents. He had already found the PortKey, kept in a separate envelope with a date and time printed on it. This he had set aside, along with the letter to the Commander Sir Samuel Vimes.

_Royalty for a cop_, Harry thought. _Wonder when we'll see that in the Ministry._

Accompanying the packet was a large fold-out map, and three separate packets. Unusually, they were extremely lengthy and detailed. Shacklebolt must have used a shrinking charm on them to fit them inside the envelope since each one had nearly 100 pages. With the uncomfortable feeling that he was revising for an exam, Harry read the titles on each report.

_Discworld – Current Politics and Important Movements_  
_Discworld – State of the Magical Art  
__Discworld (Ankh-Morpork) – Current Dealings with Earth (Roundworld)_

Harry wasn't sure which to open first, so he picked up the one on magic art, and turned the first page.

Contents Updated – June 15, 2006.

_That's yesterday,_ Harry noted.

Discworld – Current Location – A'Tuin is heading towards Sol via Antibes at apogee mk. –42 vel. 6.31 light years. Will rendezvous with Earth on this course in 1,387 earth years at present velocity. Will not come into visual telescope range for 682 years. A'tuin appears to be maintaining his anti-radio telescope shield as we have no indications Hubble has photographed A'tuin, despite tuning to his location.

Magic clusters – Magic is falling off the disc at a rate of 789,000 thaums per day. This appears well within normal tolerance. Minor magic charges appear from time to time; recently two small Kuiper Belt Object (tentatively identified as NASA 2003.293BH4921) were transfigured into a pot of flowers and a blue whale, which promptly crashed into a neighboring planet. Despite this, and the unconfirmed reports of Cohen the Barbarian moving towards the hub, magic appears to be normal.

Discworld remains an intensely magical world in which _small_ disturbances can have extremely _large_ echoes. Cf. 'Origins of Discworld, with Some Observations on Roundworld,' by Ministry Unspeakables I. Cohen and J. Stewart. Wizards at Unseen University, with supplementary evidence from the History Monks, have long been aware that thaumic breakdown is only prevented by continuing belief and evolution. Spell work remains non-wandless for the most part, as a wand is such a powerful item that it becomes inherently unstable. Ultra-humans do not seem to possess magic powers although some reports of Eldritch or preternatural surge appears to be common …

Harry was totally beguiled. What the _hell_ was Shacklebolt doing? And _where_ the hell was this? Heading towards Sol via Antibes … Harry had been pretty bad at Astronomy, but wasn't that … in outer space?

The door opened and Hermione came in. "Mmph," she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee, and took a long swig of it. "Oh, that's good," she said. "Instant human."

She looked down at the paperwork on their kitchen table and sighed. She had hoped to have this conversation yesterday, after dinner, when she would be at her best. But a glance at Harry after they had washed up told her that it wouldn't happen. He had been very moody, and seemed to not wish to talk about anything, which wasn't surprising. _He must think he's headed out to Ireland or the U.S. or somewhere, and won't be back, but can call me_, she thought. _He doesn't even know where he's going_.

Hermione did.

Discworld was certainly an advanced topic, but anyone who sat NEWT-level Arithmancy and read the more obscure spell research journals would be drawn to it as a topic like moth to flame. Hermione had read virtually every article she could find on Discworld, and even participated in a conference with Professor Vector on the subject, where she presented a short paper. It turned out, as she had met a senior wizard from Discworld at the conference – he styled himself 'wizzard,' she recalled – that most of her conclusions were wrong, but that, to her, made it all the more fascinating.

She _so_ could have talked about this last night. Prepared him. Helped him. But when he got so moody, her maternal hormones kicked in and she wanted to squeeze every last bit of sadness out of him. To comfort him and love him. It was a role she had played since he had defeated Voldemort, more than five years ago, when he was 18.

Since then – and in particular to help stave off the nightmares – they had been sleeping together. They weren't married, yet, which was no end of a shock to Molly Weasley – but they had something, and she wasn't willing to jeopardize her relationship for the sake of conformity. And it wasn't as if her parents cared; so far as Hermione's mother and father were concerned, they were already as good as married, and Hermione's mother had begun dropping hints about grandchildren.

He still didn't sleep well. She tried, but she knew it was tough on him. She quietly walked behind him and leaned into him, and Harry absently reached up to stroke her.

"Morning, love," Harry said. "Sleep well?"

"Like always," Hermione said, taking another sip of coffee. "Sweetheart?" she asked.

"Yes?" Harry said. Living with another person as long as he had meant you learned what the tone meant, quickly. It meant he was going to give in to a Hermione request, even if he didn't like it.

"I want you to do something for me," Hermione said.

"Yes, I knew that much," Harry said.

"I want you to finish reading all ofthis material this morning, and then take it with you and see Professor Vector and Headmistress McGonagall to discuss it today, please," Hermione said.

"Huh?" Harry asked. _Vector_, he thought. _I can barely even remember what he looks like. We may have exchanged one sentence in seven years_.

"Harry … you never took arithmancy," Hermione began. "If you had, you would have learned about Discworld. It's an entire planet that is held together solely by magic. Ankh-Morpork is one of the principal cities on the disc. That's where you're being sent. You clearly don't understand a lot about it, and they might be able to help you prepare for going there."

Harry was befuddled. "You _knew_! You knew last night! Why didn't you tell me?"

Hermione sighed. "Sweetie, I would have, but last night you were flashing me that prickly 'I don't want anyone close to me' look and when I see it, I just want to hold you and keep you safe. I could see you weren't really in a mood to talk about it. So this is the first opportunity I've gotten.

"Now listen, Harry, please, do this for me, will you? I know you have been given this as an assignment, and I know you are conscientious enough to carry it out. Please just give me the knowledge you are going to try and prepare fully?"

Harry felt he couldn't argue with that. "Okay, I'll owl them today, and see if I can get to see them in the next day or so. I've been given the time off to prepare for the trip, anyway."

Hermione paused. He was _so_ not going to like this. "They're expecting you today," she said. "I sent an express owl after you went to sleep. They will see you in McGonagall's office at 2:15 p.m."

"You did that without even asking me?" Harry said, angrily. "Hermione, how could you?"

"Harry, please, there is … a lot I know about this you don't yet. For one thing, you do not yet appreciate just how dangerous this is likely to be, and I do not want to risk losing you. I will do everything I can to get you prepared to go, it's all I can do – but don't be angry at me because I love you!" Hermione grabbed him into a hug.

"I – I'm sorry Hermione, I didn't realize how much you seem to care about this," Harry said. "Of course if this is important to you I'll do it. And you're right – I don't know much about this Ankh-Morpork and if McGonagall and Vector can help me, I'm certainly happy to call on their services. I don't know how dangerous it could be, though - I'm sure Shacklebolt wouldn't have made me do this if it wasn't safe."

Hermione beamed. "Oh, thank you Harry! Now I have to get ready for work, I'm pulling a double shift today, so I'll be home very late, and don't wait up." She worked in the theoretical and technical section of the St. Mungo's Spell Damage and Curse Lifting department, mainly trying to push the envelope of magic in the hopes for finding cures for those who lives were permanently affected by magic.

"I thought you didn't have the double shift until Friday," Harry said.

"I switched so that I can take all day tomorrow off," Hermione said. "I intend to spend it with you. Alone. In bed. Think about that if you need something to keep you going." She kissed him on his scar and walked to the bedroom to change, as Harry flushed with anticipation.

He refilled his coffee mug, and began to go through the dossiers in earnest. Presently Hermione left, and reminded him of his appointment. Harry managed to finish reading all three documents, and glance at the map a few times before lunch, for which he drank a quick cup of soup.

At ten minutes past two, he carefully replaced his documents, picked up a fresh notebook and a new pen (muggle writing implements were an Auror's best friend) and walked to the fireplace. He picked up a small pinch of floo powder and said quite clearly, "Hogwarts."

He stepped out of a fireplace, and came face to face with Albus Dumbledore.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, his blue eyes twinkling with merriment.


	4. Eight Million Ways to Die

**A/N Please read the full disclosures in Chapter One.**

**Cool! Reviewers! I may have to just ditch my Cthulhu fic and work more on this one! (Too bad I've finished my Cthulhu outline and this was totally spontaneous generation …)**

**I can't find Professor Vector's first name in any of the books. The only other fact I have is that she is a woman. So I have used no name rather than invent one.**

**WARNING – HBP SPOILERS WILL COMMENCE BEGINNING THIS CHAPTER.**

**Ivan: **Initially Ch. 3, now Harry will meet him end Ch. 5, have his first chat Ch. 6. I foresee short chapters rather than long ones. You'll see why, and thanks!

**Danae: **I'm inclined to agree with you viz Pratchett/Rowling.

I do not include the author of the Pern sagas in my list, though of course I have read her work, owing to her strong public position against fanfiction. I tend to feel her earlier work was better than her later work, a thought that carries over to a resident of my own fair city, Anne Rice.

Eddings work never quite perked my imagination, nor did that of Marion Zimmer Bradley. On the other hand, Glen Cook's Garret Files are hysterical, if you haven't checked that out yet. He is American, but after all, we're not all bad.

In answer to an e-mail, each chapter title will be the title of a book by the incomparable mystery writer Lawrence Block – go out and read his stuff!

**EIGHT MILLION WAYS TO DIE**

Stepping completely into the room, Harry brought himself upright in front of the picture of Albus Dumbledore, which had been hung in Headmistress McGonagall's office since the headmaster had died at the end of his sixth year. Like many of the portraits of former headmasters (and mistresses), it contained a glamor of Albus Dumbledore, that existed to offer support and guidance to the current Hogwarts headmaster. Although Harry had gotten used to talking portraits – after all, the picture of Phineas Nigellus had been moved from Grimmauld Place to his current flat that he shared with Hermione Granger – but his personal relationship with the headmaster always made his heart leap into his throat when he faced the picture.

"Hello, headmaster," Harry said quietly.

"Really, Harry, you can just call me Albus," the portrait replied, merrily. "Lemon drop? Oh, I quite forget that Minerva is not as fond of them as I was. I think you'll find some Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans on her desk, though as you may recall, I never seemed to get ones I quite enjoyed."

"Yes, headmaster," Harry, said, quietly again. Waves of sorrow hit him every time he saw the painting, even though he was pretty much over most of the events of the defeat of Voldemort.

"Now, Albus, don't patronize Mr. Potter, and you really should ask before you give away my candy," came a familiar Scotch voice as McGonagall walked up to Harry. Behind her was Professor Vector. Harry began to vaguely remember her from many Hogwarts banquets, though he had never really gotten to know the arithmancy and ancient runes professor.

"Good day, Headmistress, Professor," said Harry. "I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice."

"Nonsense, Mr. Potter," Ms. Vector said. "Always a pleasure. Particularly for one who has the opportunity you are going to have."

"Please, let's all sit down," McGonagall said. "Would you care for tea, Harry?"

"Please," said Harry and she waved her hand. A tea set and biscuits appeared. From behind them, Dumbledore coughed gently.

"Yes, Albus?" she said softly.

"Just a quick word, and then I'll be off to visit another painting, Minerva. I think it will be easier if I am not here while you are talking to Harry. Of course, should you need me, you only need call," Dumbledore said.

"Really, headmaster, I think you can stay," Harry said.

"No, Harry, I think it is better you listen to Minerva and Ms. Vector now," Dumbledore said. "My own experiences on Discworld might prejudice your views, and I think you need to see clearly with your own eyes right now. I wish I could offer you better counsel, but of course, I am quite dead, and you are only talking to an image with a limited facility for advice. Good day. I am sure I will see you before you leave," and with that he strolled out past the frame whistling.

"I wonder where he goes," Harry said aloud.

"Albus claims to have seven portraits in total, though I know of only six of them, including this one," Minerva said. "Regardless, Harry, our time is short given what we need to cover. We should begin immediately. Professor Vector?"

The arithmancy professor had been quietly waiting for her cue, and took it at once.

"Harry, before you came to Hogwarts, what kind of a student were you in muggle mathematics?" she asked.

"Well, just average, I guess," Harry replied.

"No calculus? Matrix or combinatrics? All of these should be covered in most muggle curriculums," Vector said.

"No, I never got there," Harry said. "Geometry, algebra, some trig, that was it."

"I see," she said, her face a mask. "Have you ever read about chaos theory or quantum mechanics?"

"Umm … I think Hermione's talked about it once," Harry replied.

"Right," she said. "What do you know of Einstein's Special Theory of Relativity?"

"That's … that's … EMC2, I think," Harry said. "Energy equals matter times the speed of light, squared."

"Excellent, Mr. Potter! What does that mean in plain English?" Vector beamed.

"Err … I've got no idea," Harry said, miserably. His two former professors must have been very disappointed in him. He felt horrible. Why couldn't they have sent Hermione instead, he thought.

Then an even worse thought ran through his head: _If I need to know all this, I'll never be an Auror_.

McGonagall, however, was smiling. "I told you he'd be perfect," she said.

"Flawless," agreed Vector.

Harry blinked. "Excuse me?" _You mean I'm _not_ in trouble for not knowing something, for once _he thought.

"We are pleased, Harry, that you come to us pure and unbesmirched with prejudicial thoughts on how science works," McGonagall said, sipping her tea. "That will make this _much_ easier."

"Indeed," Vector said. "We had to unlearn quite a bit of Hermione's knowledge before we could do anything with her," the professor said, smiling.

"Let me begin, Harry, by explaining a bit about where we are," McGonagall said. "Right now, we are on planet Earth, which is the third planet from the largest yellow star in our particular galaxy. So far as we know, there is no other planet in our particular galaxy which can support carbon-based bipedal life forms, which is what we are. Muggle scientists believe that our planet has been in existence for about four and a half billion years, and that we humans have existed for about 20,000 years on this planet.

"Within that system – an understanding that I must say I agree with completely – our universe obeys certain laws and rules. These laws include gravitational force, the speed of light and sound, and so on. The way in which the universe behaves is described by a set of rules that is known in the muggle world as physics, and in the wizarding world as Arithmancy."

"Okay," Harry said.

"Virtually as far as most of our advanced magical research has shown," Vector continued, "arithmancy – that is, the rules of the spells of magic – works in absolute lockstep with the notions of physics. Yes, you can levitate an object for example with the wingardium leviosa spell," and here she took out her wand and floated her tea cup above the desk "but in fact the teacup is still obeying the laws of physics. It is flying in a low-earth orbit, propelled by the force of magic, which in this case is being transmitted via my wand. Were I in a muggle spaceship propelled by liquid hydrogen the concept would be no different at all."

"So magic and physics are the same thing, then?" Harry asked.

"It would be more accurate to say that in using magic, you are still bound by the laws of physics," Vector said. "That's important here on Earth, because on the Discworld, where you are going, that is not the case.

"On Discworld, the laws we know and expect of physics – and of magic – are _not_ the same. On Discworld, magic is more powerful than physics, and the over or under use of it can have dramatic changes in reality."

"Professor Vector, where exactly is Discworld? I have a map – it shows Ankh Morpork as a city on this Discworld – but it mentions something called A'tuin, and a constellation in Antibes," Harry asked.

McGonagall and Vector exchanged glances. Here was where the difficulty was going to begin.

"Harry, the Discworld is an entirely flat planet – shaped like a disc, or if you like, a pizza – that rests on the back of four elephants. The elephants in turn sit on the back of a turtle. The turtle's name is A'tuin, and he flies through space, currently projecting at a place we expect to find him near Antibes," Vector said.

"What … but, a turtle that could support a planet … how could a turtle …" Harry started laughing. "All right, you're having me on," he said. "I'm not quite that stupid. No turtle, no elephant, could survive in the vacuum of space, and of course, none could be large enough to support an entire world, even if it was squashed into a pancake."

He looked up to see if they were laughing at him. They weren't.

"I'm quite serious, Harry," Vector said, quietly. "According to the wizards of Discworld, our entire universe with its billions and billions of stars and planets and people has existed for less than three of their years, and is the byproduct of one of their experiments in magic."

Harry gaped, open-mouthed. The entire world … it couldn't be … what about the dinosaurs and all that? He had been a little weak in his earth sciences courses pre-Hogwarts, but what was the existence of the Discworld implying? Alternate realities? He had once heard Hermione talking about something called the 'multiverse' instead of the 'universe' but … he just couldn't understand. He stared at the biscuit in his hand. What was _real_?

"Harry, I know this is a lot to take in," McGonagall said. "For what it is worth, in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries we have a number of Unspeakable wizards who have concluded similar things about the Discworld that they have concluded about us. The current Ministry view is that Discworld has existed only for about 600 of our years, and was a byproduct of some of the excess magic used during the reign of the Asian leader Tamerlane during 1369.

"We don't know which truth to believe, and frankly, Harry, it is irrelevant. The fact is, our world exists, the Discworld exists, and we can travel between them. You will find that their world is much like ours, except that in terms of technology, they have progressed approximately to the late middle or early modern ages. Gunpowder is known in a limited form only. Electricity has not been harnessed. Steam power is known of, but has not yet been practically applied. The horse remains the main working animal for transportation and ploughing, the sword remains the primary weapon in battle, and copper coins the main medium of exchange."

Harry's head was reeling. "And there are wizards," he said finally.

"And there are wizards," Vector confirmed. "The vast majority of them live in an educational complex – quite different from Hogwarts" and Harry did not fail to notice her dismissive sniff "called the Unseen University.

"The main problem with the Discworld, Harry, is that there is _too much_ magic," she continued. "So much so, that while magic is vital to the continuation of the existence of A'tuin, the elephants, and the disc, too much magic can send the disc over the edge into catastrophic shock. To balance out the fact that you are going to be there, for some time, we will be taking in one of their wizards here, to try and keep the balance, and of course to pool our knowledge and try to aid each other as much as practicable. Really, I must admit I am very grateful that you are going there for some training, as the opportunity for an extended visit by one of their wizards marks quite a unique event that I am most looking forward to," Vector concluded.

"So long as he doesn't eat us out of house and home," muttered McGonagall.

"Now, you need to know quite a few things about the rules of magic on Discworld, Harry," Vector continued. "The rules of magic are quite vital there. Accidental magic on Discworld is so inherently unstable that …" her voice trailed off.

"That what?" Harry asked.

"Well, I suppose it won't make _much_ of a difference if you perform accidental magic on Discworld," Vector said.

"Because their Ministry of Magic can't detect it?" Harry asked.

"Because if you perform some accidental magic on the Discworld, your entire body will explode into about eight million particles simultaneously at the speed of light," Vector said, happily. "The resulting explosion would be about fifty or sixty times greater than that of the largest nuclear explosion in the history of Earth. You won't know the difference, of course, since you'll be too dead to care."

There was a long pause.

"I think you'd better tell me all the rules," Harry said, soberly.


	5. All the Flowers Are Dying

**A/N Please read disclosures in Chapter One.**

It was past 8 p.m. before Harry was ready to leave Hogwarts for London. He was thoroughly exhausted, and although a light dinner had been brought on trays to the Headmistress' office by Winky the house elf, he felt a combination of hungry, bloated, and overall as if the Hogwarts Express had repeatedly run over him.

"Mental stress," retired Auror Mad-Eye Moony had once said to him. "Worse than all the forms of stress known. The main byproduct of constant vigilence. It gets you down and just grinds on you – makes you feel horrible, like you don't know whether to take a nap, go for some exercise, eat, sleep, or kill the cat. Best part of the job, really."

Just before he had left, Albus Dumbledore had stepped back into his portrait. "Ah, Harry, so sorry to see you so tired," the former heamaster said. "I'll see you back here tomorrow afternoon."

Something about that tugged at Harry, and he stopped and turned around. "How do you know I'll be back at Hogwarts, sir?"

The headmaster's eyes positively twinkled. "Because the only way for you to get to Ankh-Morpork and Discworld is through Hogwarts castle. Now go home and get some sleep – but one last thing, Harry."

"Yes sir?" Harry asked abstractedly, facing the fireplace with a pinch of floo powder in his hand.

"You do _know_ what it is you are supposed to be doing in Ankh-Morpork, don't you?" asked Dumbledore quietly.

"Yes, I'm … I'm … training? I'm …" Harry stopped, perplexed. In the entire packet, there was nothing about his own list of orders. He knew there was a letter for Commander Sir Samuel Vimes – whoever that was – but there was not a list of orders for him, Harry Potter.

"Headmaster, do you know what-" Harry turned to face the portrait.

But Albus Dumbledore was not there.

With a sigh, Harry returned to his flat – made emptier by the lack of Hermione's presence, and after tossing his reams of notes on the table, took a shower and went to bed.

A few hours later, he felt Hermione's warm body closing in to his. He put an arm around her as she snuggled close.

And there, gentle reader, we shall leave our hero and heroine. Perhaps things happened and perhaps they didn't. It shall suffice to draw a veil – well, no, not a veil, they're practically see-through – but a curtain, over the couple. You know – a curtain. The thingys that covered the stage when you had to do that horrid play in third grade singing about the food pyramid, and were terrified that you were going to widdle in your shoe when it went up and revealed to you, in the darkness beyond, your parents waving frantically at you to _look at the camera!_ whilst your elder sister smiled the evil smile at you she always did just before giving you a wet Willie.

Frankly, you should be ashamed of yourselves. If you're old enough to be part of the adult conspiracy, your imagination should supply more than enough details. If you're not old enough, then you can simply imagine that Harry and Hermione sat up like you and your friends do at sleep-overs and talked about whether trees dream, until they fell asleep.

Whatever. But sparks may have flown, and the earth may have rotated, if you get my drift. If things did happen, then you can expect that they treated each other with respect and devotion throughout the process. Honestly. Go take a cold shower.

It wasn't until late the following afternoon Harry managed to look presentable enough to stick his head in the fireplace and try to speak to Shacklebolt about his orders. Shacklebolt wasn't in, and Harry left a message with his secretary – stamped _Urgent! Open Immediately Upon Pain of Extraordinarily Painful Death!_ – requesting an immediate owl to explain the situation.

When he and Hermione were not engaged in more athletic pursuits, she was helping him revise the information he had from his packet, McGonagall and Vector. Harry was now acutely aware of the fact that the number between 7 and 9 was a very dangerous one, which contained real power in it. This was owing to its symbolic representation of octarine, the eig- check that, the _extra_ color in the spectrum, which was the color of magic.

He knew that wizards at Unseen University had split the thaum. He had a reasonable knowledge of geography, but thought it unlikely he would be venturing to remote locations such as Four Ecks, the Agatean Empire, or Uberwald. For the most part, Harry thought he would be staying in Ankh-Morpork, reporting to Commander Vimes, who he know realized in turn reported to Lord Havelock Vetinari, the Patrician and Supreme Ruler of Ankh-Morpork.

Considering the entire situation, Harry had resolved to do something he had not done in years: not to take his wand with him. He would attempt, if possible, to resolve things through muggle methods, which meant he _was_ taking a few of Sirius' old muggle weapons with him, including a few cans of mace, a pair of tungsten steel handcuffs, and two short daggers that he could conceal in his sleeves. They had finished packing and were discussing dinner options when the owl arrived.

The note from Shacklebolt was terse.

_You'll figure it out. KS._

"Well, that's bloody helpful," Harry said, tossing the note in the fire.

"Harry, what are you bringing Mr. Vimes as a gift?" Hermione asked.

"I hadn't really thought about it," Harry said. "But you're right, I should bring them something. What about … I know there's an un-opened bottle of firewhisky in the cupboard, it's probably expensive – a gift from Tom, I think, a few years back after the end of – well, Riddle. That would do."

"Okay. So we're going out for steak, then?" Hermione asked.

"Think so, it seems most of the other food groups are going to be represented," Harry said. "All an Auror needs – the coffee and doughnut food group, the cold-and-soggy pizza food group, and the stale beer food group. I'd like a big, decent piece of meat as my last meal for a condemned man."

"I think I'd prefer you to have a healthier diet, and I'd like a nice, big piece of meat, too, as my last decent meeting with an incredible man," Hermione said, wickedly. "But I suppose I'll settle for you. Let's go – if we get there by 7:30, we should get home in time for a few more innings before we should get some sleep."

Dinner and afters passed uneventfully – well, extremely eventfully, if you must know, but frankly, that's Harry and Hermione's business, not yours.

It was the following morning that reduced Hermione to a state of tears.

She and Harry were locked in the tightest hug she could manage. "Be careful. And … be careful. I am going to miss you so much," she said. "I love you … come back to me."

"I'll be fine," Harry said. "And … just think it's like one of those summers when we were separated from other while we were at Hogwarts."

"I don't ever want to be separated from you," Hermione said, crying. "It's so unfair."

"As we both know, life isn't fair. Now be strong for me," Harry said. "I'll miss you, but I'll find a way to write or something."

"Or something," Hermione said. She kissed him deeply. "I'm leaving now, because if I don't, I'll rip your clothes off and tie you to the bed and force you to stay here."

"I might enjoy that," Harry said, grinning. "Let's leave that for a thought in the early fall."

Hermione smiled, wiped her face, and then used the floo to get to St. Mungo's. Harry checked over his belongings one last time, and used the floo.

"Sweet Rolls!" he said.

Sweet Rolls was a nondescript coffee shop on a nondescript alley off of a nondescript street in a seedy part of Islington. Harry emerged in its empty kitchen, and walked through the back door. Sweet Rolls' main feature was that it backed onto Grimmauld Place.

Walking carefully down past a house, and seeing no muggles in sight, he quickly waved his hands and the familiar bulk of 12 Grimmauld Place came into sight. The serpentine bell had been replaced with a wolf's head, which howled when he rang it.

"Wotcher, Harry," said his colleague Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin as she opened the door. "Care for a cuppa?"

"Sure, auntie," Harry said, kissing her on the cheek. Since their marriage, Lupin and Tonks had formally adopted Harry as their nephew. They had no children, and apparently there were no plans for any. Harry had given them Grimmauld Place as a wedding gift, and Tonks had taken it upon herself to have the place made over. Harry had to admit that the results were spectacular; he was often glad to come over and unwind with his godfather – uncle – and have some semblance of family.

"None of that, today, luv," she said saucily. "Here yer goin' on a nice lil' vacation and I get to inherit your case load. Thanks a bloody lot."

She tried to look angry and failed miserably, so she ran her hands through his hair. "Come on. Wolfman Jack's in the kitchen."

"Harry!" Remus said, standing up from the table. He came and embraced his godson and Tonks conjured a fresh pot of tea. "So you're heading out, I hear."

"Yeah, in just a little bit, actually," Harry said.

"I've heard Discworld's pretty wild," Tonks said. "Be careful out there, pard."

"We'll see," Harry said. "It's going to be different, that's for sure. Look, I really came by to ask you if you'd check in on Hermione while I'm gone. I know she's going to mope and worry."

"Of course, kiddo. Count on us," Tonks said.

"Let me know if it's true that the Disc is overrun by beautiful women of questionable virtue," Remus grinned, which earned him a smack on the head from Tonks. "What was that for? Just an innocent inquiry."

"Hardly innocent, knowing you," Tonks said smugly. "And besides, what about the woman right in front of you?"

"Ah, yes, but then, although it is undeniable that you are beautiful, your virtue isn't in question, it's known," Lupin said, devastatingly. He leaned in and kissed his wife, who was beet red and trying to think of a withering riposte.

"Ugh, watching family kiss," Harry said. "I'd say get a room, but you have several dozen in this place."

"And the kitchen's always the best for snogging, anyway," Tonks said, breaking off the kiss. "Now get going, I'm on my way out the floo as well, and Remus is up to no good today, I'm sure, also."

They strolled to the fireplace. Tonks gave Remus a huge kiss and groped him. "Back at the usual time, love," she said, and she floo'd to the Ministry. Remus hugged Harry one last time. "Anything happens out there, run like hell, and get your ass back here," he said quietly. "The rest of you, too. But this is serious, Harry. I know enough about the Discworld that the usual rules don't apply. So don't pretend they do. You need to put someone down, do it. You need to run, do it. Don't play hero in a place where heroes tend to die. You hear me? You need to run, you run."

"I hear you," Harry said. He hugged the last Marauder and floo'd to Hogwarts.

The portrait of Albus Dumbledore looked at him, but said nothing, and the glanced at McGonagall and nodded. Minerva walked towards the door, and placed her hand conspicuously in her pocket. She removed a key ring and dropped it on the floor, before saying, "Harry, our guest wizard will be arriving in a few minutes. After that, we will have to wait for the magical energy to rest for a few hours before sending you. This will give you an opportunity to talk with him and get any last minute instructions." She turned to walk towards the door.

"Um, professor, you seem to have dropped-" Harry began.

"I'M COMING POPPY," McGonagall shouted at the top of her lungs, rushing for the door.

"Harry," Dumbledore said quietly, behind him.

"Yes, sir?" Harry said, confused.

"Quickly, now. Pick up Minerva's keys and open her filing cabinet. Red key. Third drawer, back," Albus said.

Harry dashed to the keys and opened the cabinet. The third drawer of the filing cabinet held files in the front, but in the middle it was cut off and held a small object wrapped in cloth. Opening it, he found a pair of two-way mirrors such as he and Sirius once used. This set, however, was much smaller, and one was encased in a slim, wooden case, and the other had a heavy, silver backing.

"Now run up to the owlery, and send the silver one via one of Hogwarts' Express Owls to Hermione Granger, in your London apartment," Dumbledore said. "If you write your address on a label with Minerva's quill, and place in a white envelope, it will get there safely and quicky. Keep the other mirror in your pocket. The owlery may be opened with the brown key on Minerva's ring."

Harry looked at the portrait. "Professor?" he began.

"No time right now, Harry," Dumbeldore cut him off. "You must have a way of contacting us in emergency and Ms. Granger is your best hope if you need assistance. She certainly is always welcome here should you need information we can provide. The mirror in the wooden case will survive the journey to Ankh-Morpork; the silver one is Hermione's. Now run. And come back here, before you go into the Great Hall. There are a few things I need to tell you."

Harry did not wait another instant but placed the mirror into the envelope – which suddenly seemed to shrink to fit it – and placed the label over the outside. He raced to the owlrey and chose one of the Hogwarts owls with the distinctive caps. "Here you go," he said, "Hermione Granger, care of 4A, Glamour House, 7 Victory Place, Docklands, London, E14. What's inside is breakable, so please do set it down gently."

The owl hooted and sped off, and Harry quickly returned to the headmistress' office.

The portrait of Albus looked carefully at Harry. "Harry, as you have no doubt gathered, there is mischief afoot in Ankh-Morpork. You should be on guard at all times. Expect the unexpected. I believe your new colleagues will treat you kindly, but they are all seasoned professional troops, and will expect you to act the same.

"I strongly advise you to reserve your opinion and keep quiet about things, at least for the first few weeks," Albus continued. "It is vitally important that most residents of the Disc _do not_ know about Earth. Your commanding officer, the wizards, and perhaps a few elite members of the Watch will know your true identity. Conceal yourself from all others. A cover story will be provided. Finally, try to learn as much as you can. You may find that the skills that the other members of the Watch possess are learnable and practicable in your field here in London. You are, after all, on secondment. Represent us well, and make us proud of you, not that we have any doubts about your ability. If all else fails, remember that you have allies in your companions. Finally, Harry, I do not know if you will get the opportunity, but if you do, I advise you to attempt to visit the Kingdom of Lancre. If you can go there, please try and visit an old friend of mine, Miss Esmerelda Weatherwax. Bring her some candy, if you can do such a thing. It would mean much to her."

"Yes headmaster," Harry said.

"You will find some bars of Honeydukes' best in Minerva's bottom drawer," Dumbledore said. "I'm sure they would go over a treat for Miss Weatherwax or whomever else you meet. Please take them, leave her keys on the desk, and proceed to the Great Hall to receive our guest."

_Minerva's going to hex me into oblivion_, Harry thought. He took all the chocolates he could find, opened his wallet and dropped six galleons into her drawer. He left the keys, and grabbing his already-shrunk luggage, proceeded to the Great Hall.

On the floor of the Great Hall, a five-sided pentagram had been etched, with a candle at each point. The Hogwarts staff were chanting quietly and holding hands in a circle just outside the pentagram. McGonagall stepped forward and threw a handful of sulphurous ash into the pentagram, taking great care not to break the lines of magic.

The pentagram glowed blue, and Harry watched dumbstruck as a form began to take shape. It seemed to be screaming and bloodied, and spun in a six-dimensional knot before finally coming into purpose with a loud _pop_.

The man – for so it was – was clad in red robes with brown trim. His pointy hat had the word "Wizzard" written on it in sequins. At his feet was a small chest, which seemed to scurry menacingly by itself. A large vase, containing a huge bouquet, was next to the chest, with a small card.

"Well, that was moderately agonizing," the man said. The morphic field collapsed, and the pentagram ceased to glow.

Suddenly, the flowers went from gorgeous, full blooms to dead, shriveled husks. At the same time, a puzzled look struck the wizard's face, and he clutched at his chest, before falling to the ground with a dull thud.

All Harry could do was to look on in astonishment as Madam Pomfrey raced through the pentagram to the side of the visitor.


	6. Burglars Can't be Choosers

**A/N Please read the disclaimers in chapter one.**

The wizard Rincewind was being helped to his feet unsteadily by Madam Pomfrey. Harry walked over to him.

"Are you all right?" Madam Pomfrey asked.

"I am in Hogwarts?" Rincewind answered.

"Yes, you're in Hogwarts," Madam Pomfrey replied.

"Well, since that's where they were sending me, that's right, I suppose," Rincewind said testily. "It doesn't make me feel any better."

"Are you sure that you are all right?" asked Harry. "It almost looked as if you had just …"

"Died?" Rincewind prompted the missing word.

"Yes," Harry said.

"No, sadly, I seem to be still alive," Rincewind said. "I did rather hope that death wouldn't be this painful."

"Are you hurting right now?" Madam Pomfrey asked. "I can give you a quick-relief draught which will take away much of the sensation of pain."

Rincewind looked dubious. "Maybe later," he said finally. He stretched himself, took a few awkward steps, and promptly threw up all over Professor Flitwick.

Rincewind sat down heavily on the Luggage.

"_Scourgify_," said McGonagall promptly, waving her wand and cleaning up Professor Flitwick. "I am sorry, Professor Rincewind, that you did not seem to travel very well. Still, I warmly welcome you to Hogwarts. I am Headmistress Minerva McGonagall."

"I am alive," Rincewind said. "I consider that traveling well. I had a bundle of flowers to offer to you, Headmistress, from our Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, with his greetings. However, they seem even less disposed than I am."

"Never mind," Harry said quietly. Though he did not have his wand, he had learned to cast many spells wandlessly as standard Auror practice. "_Reparo_," he uttered, and the flowers crept back into bloom.

Minerva looked carefully at Rincewind and Harry. "It will be about two hours, I understand, before we can send Harry through," she said. "I understand you have a PortKey, Harry, but you must understand that to send you as far as Discworld it will require extra effort, that a PortKey cannot provide. Such events necessitate the use of the pentagram here. Why don't you and Professor Rincewind try and share as much information as you can together while we wait?"

This was conveyed not so much in a suggestion as a _statement_. The faculty emptied out of the Great Hall and left the two wizards looking at each other. Finally Rincewind broke the ice. "So you're Harry Potter," he said, glumly.

"Yes … how did you know?" Harry said, startled.

"Black hair, green eyes, scar on your forehead?" Rincewind said. "Oh, and the fact that I knew that I was here to swap places with you, and Headmistress McGonagall called you by name. And finally, because a young woman named Hermione Granger carries a picture of you, and she showed it to me last year."

Harry was completely taken aback by this. "You've met Hermione?"

"At the Discworld/Roundworld Conference on Alternative Magic a year or so back. Or was it three years back? I can't remember," Rincewind said. "Anyway, the conference was held at Stonehenge, but I had to come here via Hogwarts. This isn't my first visit to Earth, you know. I've been here four or five times, in my capacity as the Egregious Professor in Cruel and Unusual Geography at Unseen University, in Ankh-Morpork."

He neglected to add the "unpaid" part, or the fact that he was also the fretwork instructor, investigator of slood dynamics, or the inheritor of other titles that Ridcully had not been able to find any other full-time faculty to keep permanently. Or at least not through breakfast the next morning.

"So do you know what you're getting into?" Rincewind asked.

"I suppose not," Harry said. "Everyone seems to be careful to tell me absolutely nothing."

For the first time, something resembling a smile hovered over Rincewind's face. "Story of my life," the Discworld native said.

"Mine, too," Harry said.

Rincewind cocked his head at an angle and remembered a trip he had taken to Four Ecks. "Don't have any relatives in Four … in Australia, would you?"

"Not that I know of," Harry said.

"Hmm … yes, well, nevermind," Rincewind said, briskly. "I'll tell you what Ponder and Hex have figured out. Over the past few months in Ankh-Morpork, we have had some _unusual_ fluctuations in magic, corresponding with an increase in _unusual_ crimes. Lord Vetinari has asked Unseen University to cooperate with the City Watch in its investigation. As you may comprehend, this cooperation has not exactly been very cooperative. Ergo, I'm here, officially to research some obscure problems with L-Space as part of the investigation, and you're going there, ostensibly to work for the Watch, but in reality to act as a spy for Unseen University to discover what is in fact going on."

Harry was stunned at this. Finally he could only manage "What kind of unusual fluctuations, and who are Ponder and Hex?"

"Ponder is Professor Ponder Stibbons. You'll report to him at Unseen University, mainly because the Archchancellor cannot be seen to be bothering with anything this important, as it might encourage the faculty to force him to do something energetic like teaching. That doesn't matter, since Ponder is the only wizard you will want to talk with, anyway. First, he's about our age, so he's not blinded by his position into thinking he knows everything, and second, he probably knows more about Roundworld – er, earth – than any other wizard.

"Hex is … from my limited knowledge of your world's technology, a living computer. It can be annoying at times, and sometimes you want to throw a brick at it, but often if you use it correctly it can give you very useful information. Ponder is the main wizard that uses Hex, so if you stay close to him, you can ask him to get information from Hex for you. As to the unusual occurrences, I'm sure you're going to hear more on that than I know. I don't get told anything, being in the library, most of the time."

"I'm supposed to report to a Commander Sir Samuel Vimes. I am really expected to spy on their Auror – their Watch?" Harry asked.

"That's what the wizards expect, though I rather think you're better off telling neither of them what you find out," Rincewind said. "I've met Commander Vimes a few times, and he's a good chap, from what I can tell. You'll probably be working with one of the more junior members of the Watch. Carrot, possibly. Overall they're a good group. Well, with the exception of Nobby. At any rate, tell them all what you think they want to hear, and decide for yourself what you need to do, that's my advice."

Harry nodded. At least Rincewind seemed to be interested in giving him good advice. He felt better knowing that at least one person seemed to be on his side. "What do you intend to do here?" asked Harry.

"Absolutely as little as I can get away with," Rincewind replied.

Harry nodded slowly and thought for a moment. "Will you promise to communicate with me if I need information?"

Rincewind sighed. "You mean I have a choice?"

Harry nodded. "I'll either leave you completely alone, so much as that is practical, or if you pledge to assist me, perhaps I can help you in making your stay as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances."

Rincewind nodded. This would probably be the best offer he could get. "Okay," he said.

Harry whispered furtively. "Dobby?"

The little house-elf _popped_ into the room. "Oh, Harry Potter sir! Dobby is so happy to have seen Harry Potter today!" the house-elf smiled broadly, clasping his hands together. Harry was only slightly aware of a light patter near him, but his time was short and he knew he needed to get his instructions to the house-elf quickly.

"Dobby, I know you work at Hogwarts, but I'd appreciate it if you could do a favor for me," Harry began.

"Anything for Harry Potter!" Dobby nearly glowed. "Dobby would be so happy to serve Harry Potter, who has freed us from the evil wizard, who gave us clothes, who,"

"Yes, Dobby," Harry said, interrupting to stem the flow of praise. "What I'd like you to do is help –" and here for the first time he looked up to see that the wizard Rincewind was gone from the room.

"Dobby, our visitor – Professor Rincewind – was just here," Harry stammered.

"He is currently running outside of the Great Hall towards the main doors, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby said. "Would you like him to come back here?"

"Er, yes, please, Dobby," Harry said.

The house-elf _popped_ away, and a few seconds later, _popped_ back, with an arm around the speeding Rincewind, who hit the floor running a second time.

"What are you running from?" Harry called.

"This- that- don't _do_ that!" Rincewind said, exasperated. "Do _not_ sneak up on me like that. When things like that happen in Discworld, you wind up suddenly dead!"

Harry remembered what his godfather had said only this morning: _if something looks wrong, run_. It looked like Rincewind had a _lot_ of practice. This was the second most important thing the wizard had taught him.

"Right, well, you can run later. For now, get over here," Harry said calmly. He seized the three of them and they huddled close.

"Dobby, do we still have those old, unused reading rooms in the library?" Harry asked. "The old moldly ones that Snape used to fill up with all the books we wanted to read and he hid from us?"

"Oh, yes, Harry Potter, sir. There are a number of old, unused rooms like that in the library," Dobby said. "Madam Pince has not been in some of them in this decade."

"Dobby, this is Professor Rincewind. He's … visiting us. I want you to take one of those rooms, clean it carefully, and set it up as a small studio apartment for the Professor. Get a key made to the door, and make sure there's only _one _key," Harry said. "Then, I want you to give that key to Professor Rincewind. I'm sure that McGonagall is going to give him a room in the teacher's turret towards the back of the castle, but I want this to be a private room, do you understand, Dobby? I do not want, if at all possible, any members of the staff to know that Professor Rincewind has a private study. Glamor it so the outside still looks dusty and unused.

"And if you are asked, Dobby, where Professor Rincewind is – tell the truth. That you don't know where he is, _for certain_. He could, for instance, be taking a walk outside by the lake. Or he could be in the Great Hall. He might have been walking around the castle somewhere. If you are forced, Dobby, then of course you should tell people where he is. Otherwise, try to make sure that Professor Rincewind is disturbed as little as possible. However, if I have a message for Professor Rincewind, you are to bring it to him as quickly as you can. I will send my messages through Hermione, Dobby, so she might contact you. Is this acceptable?"

The house-elf wriggled up and down. "Of course, it is, Harry Potter sir! This is very easy indeed!"

Rincewind looked at Harry as if he had just been handed the reigns to a shiny new carriage, complete with a double-tandem team of Sto Lat thoroughbreds, and been given 500AM dollars for oats and stable fees. "You would do that for me?" Rincewind said.

"If I need your help, I expect it," Harry said simply. "Hermione will know how to get in touch if we really need it. Otherwise, have fun, stay out of trouble, and I'll see you in three months."

Rincewind nodded. "You'd better get ready to go," he said. "And I mean it about Stibbons. He's no fighter, but he's your best contact in a pinch. Stibbons can get hold of me as well in a second if need be. And on the Watch, Carrot is the best of the bunch. Stibbons and Carrot. If you have any trouble, they're the people you want on your side."

_Very helpful_, thought Harry. "Any last advice?" he asked.

Rincewind nodded. "Keep your eyes shut, hold your breath, and if at all possible, go to the bathroom before you leave."

Harry realized he was talking about the transit. "Is it really that bad?" he asked.

"No. It's worse."

Harry was looking to step out when the faculty of Hogwarts returned. "Harry, it is time," McGonagall said. "You need to get into the pentagram now," she said.

The Luggage and the vase had been removed. Harry wasn't sure where it had moved to; Rincewind's chest had appeared to have a mind of its own. He shrunk his own bags into the pocket, stepped into the pentagram and then pulled the envelope containing the pen-cum-Portkey from his pocket.

It began to glow faintly blue, and the pentagram joined it. The candles' gentle dance of light suddenly spiked.

Keep your eyes shut, hold your breath … 

Harry Potter felt his insides twist into a six-dimensional knot and his brain turn into a pretzel. If PortKey made your feel as if you had tug behind your navel – similar, in fact, to the sensation that many a rider has experienced on the Six Flag's "Death Dropper" ride – then this made you feel as if you had a tug somewhat below your navel … let's call it, say, five inches or so below, on the average person, unless you're a little taller or shorter … and of course on the other side of the navel.

Most humans don't have a tail. Darwin, if you believe him, suggests that it gradually evolved away. Travel between earth and the Discworld reminded you that, not only did you have a tail, it wasn't happy about being evolved away.

During the worst of hangovers, people generally get the sensation of movement, even when they are quite still. Right now, Harry Potter felt as if he had entered the Three Broomsticks, asked Madam Rosmerta to begin with the firewhisky and not stop until he had sampled each exotic potion she had to offer, and then been spun around on a top for a few hours.

He kept his eyes quite shut, even though he hard voices.

"Should he just be lying there that way? He looks too still."

"I'm quite certain he's alive; that spell took more energy than usual. It wouldn't have required so much if he was dead."

"You're sure it not Rincewind, just with a change of clothing?"

"No, he'd be on his feet running, by now."

Harry moaned and began to flutter his eyes. He was on his side in a marked pentagram, with a lot of very … well, how shall we put this? _Gravitationally challenged_ men surrounding him.

"Oooh," he said.

One of the less rotund mounds – men – stepped forward. "Mr. Harry Potter?" he said rather nervously.

"Erm?" managed Harry.

"Nice to meet you. Ponder Stibbons, head of the Inadvisably Applied Magic Department," Stibbons said, stepping forward to help him to his feet. "May I introduce our Archchancellor, Mustrum Ridcully."

"Mr. Potter, delighted," said an extremely athletic looking wizard, who vaguely reminded him of Snape, albeit a Snape that understood the meaning of the word 'hygiene.'

"Ahh," said Harry, managing to stretch his arm out and come reasonably close to fail to shake hands.

"Are you feeling all right, Mr. Potter? There were some difficulties," said the Archchancellor.

"What happened?" Harry managed to gasp out.

"You just caused a minor surge in magic," Stibbons said. "The High Energy Magic building is shielded for this eventuality and I'm sure everything will be fine. The Bursar is giving the librarian some of his dried frog pills, and I'm sure he will be swinging from the library shelves again quite soon."

Harry noticed that … was that a _monkey_ they were attending to? Who had been lying down, and was now shaking himself up?

"Well, if that's really all, I personally think it's time for tea," said a wizard, who happened to be the Senior Wrangler.

The Dean did not take this threat amiss. The Senior Wrangler was known to help himself to the majority of the clotted cream if he made it first to the table. Although extremely rotund men are not known for speed, the room nevertheless began to empty quickly.

"Well, Mr. Potter, nice to meet you and all, I'm sure Mr. Stibbons will assist you, good man, Stibbons," and the archchancellor quickly exited the room. He knew his wizards, after all.

"Sit down, Harry," Stibbons said, carefully escorting him to a chair. "I assume you will be capable of normal speech in a moment. I am aware that the process is not very pleasant. Rincewind has informed me that he is settling in nicely."

Harry gulped down some air, and finally felt he was not going to throw up. "You've uh … talked to … uh … uh … already?" he managed.

"Oh, yes," Stibbons said. "Hex opened a channel to him virtually the second you began to dematerialize on the Roundworld. We've been speaking for a few minutes now. Rincewind?"

A disembodied voice spoke from somewhere above Harry. "I told you it wouldn't be any fun."

"You were right," Harry said, looking for the source of the voice. It appeared to be coming from a skull that sat atop a maze of wires, parchments, quills, an ant farm, a live rat, and … something that went _parp_ occasionally.

"Now look, Harry, we haven't much time. I've received a clacks from Pseudopolis Yard; they want you there on the double. Hold up your hand for a moment," Stibbons said.

Harry did so, and felt a sharp prick.

"Ouch!" he said, pulling his hand back. His finger had been pricked.

"I said hold still," Sibbons said crossly. He used a small vial to take a small out of blood out of Harry's finger, about the amount usually removed for a cholesterol test, and then put a piece of sticking plaster over it.

"What was that for?" Harry asked.

"Several things," Stibbons said, "we need to register your thaumic signature, so we can be sure to locate you in an emergency. I also hope to use your blood for a little experiment. More on that later."

The disembodied voice spoke again. "What exactly did the clacks say?" Rincewind said.

"That Potter needed to be at Pseudopolis Yard by four bells," Stibbons said, distractedly.

Harry, at the moment, was beginning to feel a bit … odd. He felt disoriented, and as if he needed … something …

"You'd better get him on his way, then," Rincewind's voice spoke.

"Right … Potter, do you know much about Ankh-Morpork?" Stibbons asked.

"I've been here … three minutes?" Harry retorted. "I wonder if you could show me where," he began.

"Right, come with me, then," Stibbons sighed.

They walked out of the High Energy Magic building, down a path through the garden, and to the gates of Unseen University. Harry looked at the road. It was unpaved, and muddy from constant traffic. "Do you see that tower over there?" Stibbons asked.

It would be hard to miss. At least 15 stories high, it rose above everything else in the entire city. Harry saw that most of the buildings were at most two or three stories high.

"Well, you're not going there," Stibbons said. "That's the Patrician's palace."

"Okay," said Harry. _So why did you point it out to me?_

"But I want you to try and get there from here," Stibbons said. "Just keep an eye on it, keep heading towards it, until you get to a bridge over the river Ankh. That'll be the Brass Bridge. Don't cross the bridge, but pass it, and Pseudopolis Yard will be the next building you come to."

"Right," said Harry. "You're not coming with me?"

"You mean, leave Unseen University?" Stibbons said, clearly shocked.

"I suppose that would be necessary," Harry said. "But at any rate, before that, could you show me where,"

Stibbons looked nervous and interrupted him. "Head for the –uh, tower. And Pseudopolis Yard – on your left past the Brass Bridge." He ran back in the direction of the High Energy Magic building, and the gates silently slammed shut on Harry.

He sighed and began walking though the muck. After a few minutes, this became difficult. Although the buildings were low, they were so dark and squalid as to sometimes block out his view of the tower. He kept trying to head in what he thought was the general direction of the tower, when he stepped into a dead end. It didn't help that he was feeling … as if he'd drunk 50 cups of coffee and 20 cups of water. He felt bloated and occasionally smacked his lips.

Seeing as he was now staggering slightly, it took him a moment to notice that there was a small group of men in the dead end, who looked at him with narrow eyes.

"Millenimum Hand, and Shrimp," said one.

"I'm thinkin' you took a wrong turn back there," came a voice, although Harry couldn't tell who spoke.

"Not much meat on him, anyway," said another.

"You're not from these parts, are you, pardner?" came the second voice again. Harry still couldn't see who was speaking.

"Er, no," he said.

"Where you trying to go?" and … was that a _dog_ speaking to him?

'Pseudopolis Yard," Harry said.

"Ah, the new copper," said a man. He had … a … _duck _… on his head?

"Back down the street, first right, stay on that street for about 150 paces, make your first left, you're there," said the dog.

"Er … well, thanks very much," Harry said, and followed the instructions. Now he could see the river … if river it was. The Thames looked more pure. But still, the instructions were correct – he could see the sign halfway down the street.

"Pseudopolis Yard, Ankh-Morpork City Watch"

He was running now. "Oh gosh oh gosh og hosh," he said, and staggered into the watch house. A dwar- a diminutive person, Harry thought quickly – was on duty.

"Yes?" came a bored tone.

"Er can you tell me where I can find a bathroom?" Harry said. He couldn't hold this much longer.

"Nearest city bath is down the street, but they aren't serving men at the moment, only women at present," the person of short stature said.

Harry was sweating now. "Oh Merlin … but … what if I have to go now?"

The dwarf looked at him in surprise. "You mean like you gotta do a shit?"

"YES," said Harry through clinched teeth.

"Then why'd y' ask about taking a bath? You want the latrine, you mean," the dwarf said. "Out the door, turn right."

Harry dashed out and went right around the building, where he saw a second entryway. A woman emerged out of it, wearing armor and a badge, and briefly smiled at him. Harry went to the entryway, which led to two doors, neither marked.

_Which which which which which_ left, thought Harry. Beggars can't be choosers.

He walked in. The smell was … indescribable. There were covered stalls. He went to the firs open and saw … a hole in the floor. That was it. He stepped over both sides, and did what was necessary.

As he stepped out, sometime later, he saw a young woman going through his bags. Without thinking he used a stunner. "Stupefy!"

_KERRR-BAMMM!_

The stunning spell, which normally held its victims for a few second, smashed the burglar through the wall, back into the foyer of the watch office. He saw the dwarf, sitting behind the desk, look at him in awe.

"What the gods-"

"Guards!" came a barked cry.

The woman whom he had seen leaving the latrine earlier was on his faster than he'd ever seen anyone attack him. A pair of other guards were clearly on him.

"So what do we have here, then?" came the question from an obviously displeased Watch.

_Great, now I've done it, _Harry thought glumly.

"Care to explain why you're in the women's latrine?" asked the female Watchman-woman, thought Harry.

"Er, there wasn't any sign – I just went in to use the latrine, and I didn't see which was which," Harry said. "When I came out, I saw this woman going though my things, and I just tried to stop her, honestly," Harry said.

"It's Theresa," said a dwarf was reviving her. "Her license is up to date – I know, I stopped her last week."

"License?" Harry asked.

"License to thief," the dwarf said. "What did you think? She had perfect right to try and steal."

"Huh?" Harry said.

"Look, lad, you're in a world of trouble right now, do you understand that?" came a gruff voice from his right.

"I was just trying to see Commander Vimes," Harry said.

"Oh, you'll see him, all right," said the gruff man smugly. "After a night or two in the Patrician's scorpion pit."

"But I have an appointment with him! At four bells!" Harry said.

The Watchmen – and women – eyed each other for a second.

"Can you prove that?" asked the woman guard.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope. She stared at it, wide-eyed.

"Get him in Vimes' office," she barked. "Nobby, get this wall fixed."

"Why do I-" came a whining voice.

"Because I say so," said the woman guard. She seized Harry by the front of his clothes, dragging him through the rubble of the door, and down a long corridor. "Kid, I hope to hell you're a good diplomat, because I reckon you're gonna need to be." she said. She knocked once on a door and shoved him in, and closed the door behind him.

Harry blinked as he realized the room was much darker than outside. A man was sitting behind a desk, smoking a cigar. He looked at him narrowly.

"So you're Potter," he said.

"Yes sir," Harry said.

"You've got a letter for me," Vimes said,

"Yes sir, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, sir," Harry said, handing it over.

Vimes took it slowly, never letting his eyes lose track of Harry's. Without looking he broke the seal on the envelope and removed the letter. Finally he read it, extremely slowly. He did not look back up at Harry.

"You're here 10 minutes," Vimes began. "You then proceed to show up late to my office, trespass into a woman's latrine, cause malicious property damage by blowing a hole in the wall to a latrine, commit assault and battery on a registered burglar in the course of normal employ, and manage to essentially blow any pretense of a cover story we were going to concoct."

"I, uh, guess so," Harry said. "Just lucky, I guess."

Vimes took a deep puff on his cigar.

"Shacklebolt was right. You're gonna be hell," Vimes said. He then smiled broadly. "Sit down, Potter."

Harry did so. _Gonna be a long day_, he thought.


	7. The Hit List

**A/N Please see disclaimers in Chapter One.**

**I am still going to finish my Cthulhu story, honest, but since this fic is getting more attention, I will complete it faster. After my 30-mile bike ride this morning, the rest of the plot came to me in the shower, and I quickly outlined the remaining chapters to the end. Argh, me keyboard is soaked with water! Hopefully, if you are enjoying it, this will be done before October.**

**Also, I've busted Angua from Sergeant to Lance-Corporal, owing to the ramifications of her deserting her post in _The Fifth Elephant._**

**LadySavage: **Thank you so much for the kind review! Blush My Rincewind is taking after the Rincewind of "The Science of Discworld" series rather than "The Color of Magic," or "Interesting Times." Assuming you are of age in your locality, dear lady, I pass you a hearty sampling of the fine product of Loretto, Ky. as thanks!

**THE HIT LIST**

Vimes was silent for a while, smoking and staring at him. Harry felt as if holes were being bored into his soul. He took the opportunity to attempt to be civil.

"I have brought you a small gift, sir, as a token of my appreciation," Harry said. He reached into this bag and found the bottle of firewhiskey, which Hermione had wrapped and added a small card to that read 'to Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, with compliments, Harry Potter.'

Vimes looked at it darkly.

"You trying to insult me, Potter?" he asked.

"Sir?" asked Harry, confused.

"I asked you if you were trying to insult me," said Vimes. His voice was very calm. Harry knew that level of calm. It was the type calm that people attempted to maintain when they really wanted to rip your throat out. The calm that really wasn't very, in other words.

"I don't understand, sir," Harry said. "I'm not trying to insult you."

Vimes sighed. "Didn't they tell you anything about this place?"

"Sir, I had three dossiers to read, none of which made much sense, and the only person who really gave me any decent advice was the wizard Rincewind, and I spoke to him extremely briefly," Harry said.

"You didn't talk to Shacklebolt about me?" Vimes asked.

"He wouldn't answer my questions," Harry said ruefully. Vimes smiled. "That's like the old sonofabitch," he said quietly. "What about Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore?" asked Harry quietly.

"Yes, Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore. Didn't you speak with him?" Vimes asked.

Now it was Harry who drew a breath to remain calm. "Sir, Albus Dumbledore is dead. He died more than five years ago. I was there," he said, evenly. Now he stared Vimes straight in the eyes.

Vimes dropped his cigar. "Albus Dumbledore is dead?" he said, amazed. Harry could tell the man was truly shocked.

"Yes, sir. I witnessed his murder, and went to his funeral. The perpetrator … isn't here anymore," Harry said quietly.

Vimes stared at Harry sharply, then retrieved his cigar. There were a series of bell-pulls behind his chair and he now reached up and pulled one. The woman officer returned to the room.

"Lance-Corporal Angua, this is Harry Potter. He's joining us as a new recruit from the Counterweight Continent," Vimes said, in a voice that brooked no argument.

"Yes, sir," Angua replied.

"Is Detritus here?" Vimes asked.

"Just reported to the squad room, sir," Angua said.

"Send him to me. And get a message to Carrot that I want to see him," Vimes said.

Angua saluted and walked out. Vimes looked back at Harry. "I'm what you would refer to as an alcoholic, Harry. I haven't had anything to drink in more than 10 years. A gift of whiskey to me would normally be perceived as insulting, but I can see that you did not have the benefit of the best counsel, and I also see a use for this, if you don't mind."

Before Harry could respond, a _crack_ came at the door. Harry stared. A _ROCK TROLL_ entered the room, wearing a badge. Harry couldn't believe it. How the hell did Vimes get a rock troll to work on this force?

"U want to see me, sah?" asked Detritus.

"Sergeant Detritus, this is Harry Potter. He's joining us as a new recruit from the Counterweight Continent," Vimes said. "When you interviewed Chrysophrase yesterday, did he tell you anything of interest relating to the last incident at the Ankh-Morkpork Downs?"

"Dat piece of schist ain't sayin' nuttin' to me, Commander Vimes, sah," Detritus said. "But he _knows_ sumpin', I know it."

"Right," said Vimes. "I want you to take Littlebottom and go back to the Downs. Get Doughnut Jimmy and see what he'll tell you. Likely it'll be nothing until you invite him to join you in a bottle of whiskey," and Vimes handed him the bottle of firewhiskey, carefully ripping off the note so that only the words 'to Commander Sir Samuel Vimes' were legible.

"Now, this whiskey is likely to be more potent than normal, so don't let Littlebottom get a hold of any of it, but you can probably manage a glass or three," Vimes continued. "Try to get what you can out of Doughnut before he passes out, and then let Littlebottom take a look at the area."

"Right you are, sah," said Detritus, taking the bottle with him. He turned to Harry for a second. "Please to meetchu," he said, then saluted and left.

"Right, Potter," Vimes said. "As you are now aware, there are several contacts between your world and Discworld," Vimes said. "Generally, the Patrician, in conjunction with a few senior need-to-know advisors, monitors the magic output very carefully in order that there is no instability between the dimensions. The wizards know more about this than I do, but overall, it's possible to pierce the dimensions in many ways, unleashing total cosmic destruction. Understand?"

_Total cosmic destruction,_ Harry thought. _Not good._ "Okay," he said.

"Over the past few months, we've monitored some very bizarre spikes in magic. We're not totally sure why," Vimes admitted. "This has come at a time of some very bizarre crimes in Ankh-Morpork."

"Murder?" asked Harry.

"No, what's strange about murder? Simplest thing in the world, if you think about it," Vimes said. "A bizarre crime is a crime, Harry, for which you cannot fathom a motive or an opportunity. There's virtually always a motive for murder – love, hate, gain, accident … it doesn't matter if you don't know the motive, plug in a few and see what happens.

"No, a bizarre crime is when you find something that just doesn't fit. Like the theft of an object that no body wants anyway, such as a pile of trash. Or the sudden and spontaneous desire on the part of the citizenry to pay their taxes on time," Vimes said. "People don't _like_ to take out the trash. Nor do they _like_ to pay tax. So when you see people doing things which are clearly against their own interests, rather than their own beliefs, you should get suspicious. It usually means they're up to something."

Harry had been listening very carefully to Vimes, and he began to see what Shacklebolt meant. You couldn't just tie people up and use Veritasserum on them. You had to understand what they were _thinking_ if you wanted to _prevent_ crime.

"Can you give me some idea as to what has been happening in the city, Commander?" Harry said.

"The first items weren't that noticeable," Vimes said, lighting a new cigar. "First, William de Worde – the editor of the Ankh-Morpork Times – reported that someone stole his old printing press. Now this was an old one, I want to point out. He hadn't used it in more than five years, and it sat in the back of an old warehouse. He only noticed the theft because at the same time the King of the Golden River – that's our local garbage man – remarked on a massive theft of paper from one of the neighboring warehouses, so Worde checked up on it. We thought someone might be setting up a rival paper, either here or in Sto Lat or possible Klatch, but so far, nothing. Just the theft of paper and a disused printing press.

"The second thing was more worrying. The Igors began to behave strangely. They would disappear – not that that's unusual – but reappear talking normal, which is unusual. And they were less organized, which is very unlike them. Igors are very territorial; they work where they work, and they don't go into other areas. But now they've been seen all over. This was troubling." Vimes looked at Harry's face. "You'll hear more of them, later. For the time being, all you need to know is that the Igors are behaving strangely," he said.

Harry nodded.

"The third thing was something that prompted me to get a hold of Shacklebolt," Vimes said. "The tattoo parlors here are often associated with illicit gambling, so we keep a close eye on them. In recent months, this has been the most popular tattoo for people to get." He pulled a drawing out of the inner recesses of his desk and showed it to Harry. The drawing was of a human skull with a snake coming out of the mouth.

Harry looked at it in shock.

"The Dark Mark," he whispered.

Vimes nodded. "Whole gangs of youths have been getting it," he said. "I suppose you can guess what they're calling themselves."

"Death Eaters," Harry whispered.

"Close," Vimes said. "They're calling themselves the Grave Gourmands."

"It sounds like some kind of sick joke," Harry said.

"What they're up to is no sick joke," Vimes said. "They've been attacking most of the smaller temples in Ankh-Morpork. Not the Temple of Small Gods – that's too large – but small shrines to Nuggan, Sweevo, Annoia … they're destroying them utterly, razing them to the ground. The priests, of course, are hopping mad. It seems there is a hit list of gods they're going after."

"How many gods do you have?" asked Harry.

"No idea, but several dozen, at least," Vimes said. "Here on the Disc, gods respond to belief. They dwell over the Disc in Cori Celesti, a city at the top of the massive mountain at the hub. Carrot – that's Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson – has been there. As I understand it, when there are enough people who believe in an idea or a fixation, the god spontaneously pops into existence. Most of the gods who have been targeted thus far have been smaller gods, but they're working their way up the food chain to the larger gods, too."

Harry nodded uncertainly. _Words had power_, he thought. He looked at Vimes expectantly.

"Well, that's it. We've compiled a hit list of potential targets for the Grave Gourmands, places they're likely to hit before they move up to the Temple of Blind Io or the Great God Om. Your mission here, Harry, will be to find out what these Grave Gourmands are doing, prevent them from carrying out their attacks on temples, and to uncover how they're linked to your own world, and stop that, too. Understand?"

"Sir. Yes sir," Harry said. "What about?"

"Practicalities?" Vimes asked. Harry nodded.

"You're going to be working with Captain Carrot and Lance-Corporal Angua," Vimes said. "Don't tell them who you are or where you're from, though I daresay they'll pull it out of you, in time. Carrot's the best man we've got, and Angua can sniff out details from virtually anything.

"In the meantime, I'm putting you up with Carrot at his boarding house. He's got a spare room. I assume you don't have any problem working with dwarfs?"

"Sir, I don't have any prejudices against people of different stature," Harry said, carefully.

"Carrot is certainly of different stature," Vimes said, "but I didn't ask you that. I asked you if you had a problem working with dwarfs. The race. Carrot is a dwarf. Any problems?"

Harry pictured the dwarf manning the desk when he came in. _Typically short, long beard, looked like an axe hit him in the face_, he thought. Harry hadn't had any experience with dwarfs on earth. He assumed there was a good reason that Vimes was asking this. "No problems at all, sir," he said.

"Good. You'll be paid the standard Ankh-Morpork wage, two dollars per week. You might ought to change some money now, if you want to have a bit of ready cash," Vimes said. "Earth money runs too heavy against the Disc, anyway, we can't afford to let anyone see a few extra pounds here."

Harry nodded and pulled out his wallet, and extracted five galleons. Vimes stared at it, incredulously. "What – the – hell – is this?" he asked. Harry blinked. "Wizarding money, sir. Five galleons. The galleon was trading about 7.8 to the pound, when I left."

Vimes stared at it. "It's … gold," he said.

"Yes," Harry said. "Is this a problem?"

Vimes was remembering details from long, long ago, about a fire in the city, and an idiot traveler from the Agatean Empire. _What was his name? Four Tree? No … Twoflower, that was it._

"I think that this amount, roughly, could cover my payroll for the next three months," Vimes said weakly.

Harry looked at him, shocked. "How much do you have on you at present?" he asked.

Vimes looked in the petty cash drawer in his desk. "About 200 AM dollars," he said.

Harry thought. "Right, give me 50, and keep the rest safe," he said. "If I go around breaking down more walls, you might need it."

Vimes handed over 50 dollars. "How'd you do that, by the way? Got a gonne or something?"

"Er, no sir, that's a simple spell that often can immobilize people for up to about 30 seconds," Harry said. "I've no idea how it picked up that much power. I didn't realize that magic was so wild here. I'll be more careful in the future."

"You'll be dead," Vimes said, "if you keep letting go like that. Keep it in mind. Running is always a better option."

_Third person today who's told me that_, Harry thought.

A knock came on the door, and a giant entered.

"Sir," said Captain Carrot, saluting.

"Carrot, this is Harry Potter, a new recruit joining us from the Counterweight Continent," Vimes said. Potter, this is Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, your direct report."

Harry looked up … only to look up some more. He had never grown very tall, considering that his diet during puberty consisted solely of the Dursley's table scraps and the carb-rich, protein-poor diet at Hogwarts. Carrot was a … dwarf? He was at least six-foot-six.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Harry gulped.

"A pleasure, Constable Potter," Carrot said, shaking Harry's hand. His grip felt like iron, anyway.

"Carrot, Potter's a bit of a special case," Vimes said. "I want him shadowing you at all times. That means living in your quarters rather than at the Watch house. I presume this will be no problem?"

"Not a problem in the slightest, Commander," Carrot said.

"Right, then," Vimes said. "Get him changed into regulation Watch issue, settle his things at your place, and then get ready for tonight's operation. Dismissed."

The two junior officers of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch saluted their commanding officer.

"Sir. Yes sir," they said in unison, and walked out.

Vimes watched the door shut, and then thought about the stunning revelation the young wizard had told him.

_Albus Dumbledore was dead?_

The thought was not settling. There was only one person Vimes could ask about this. And he intended to do so. At once.


	8. Enough Rope

**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

To all my kind reviewers … thank you so very much! I am _hugely_ encouraged, and each of you is individually so talented and beautiful that the world should draw upon your talents at the United Nations. I pour out massive mint juleps to everyone (assuming, of course, you are legal to consume the output of Loretto, Ky., in your area of residence; otherwise, you get ginger ale).

To those who feel my Rincewind is OOC: I will consider this going forward, but in _SOD II: The Globe_ and _The Last Hero_ Rincewind is shown as a maturing wizard. Rincewind conceives and executes the plan in _the Globe_ that eventually thwarts the Elves. In the _Last Hero_ he volunteers to travel to Cori Celesti and confront Cohen the Barbarian, the Gods of the Disc, and save the world (in his own words, 'again'). I think we've seen glimpses of Rincewind's maturity in _Interesting Times_ (when he dons One Sun Moon's armor to lead the Red Army) and now he's gone far beyond being a mere coward. I think Rincewind is now a mere coward that's crazy like afox: he _knows_ that these things keep happening to him, so he perverts his own fate by _accelerating_ the process forward until he can go back into hiding. Don't worry; most of his time at Hogwarts, he's going to be doing exactly that-hiding.

My favorite Discworld character, by far, is Esmerelda Weatherwax. A close second is Death. My favorite Harry Potter character, other than Harry himself, is Remus Lupin.

Finally, apologies to John Mortimer for my borrowing one of his set-ups in this chapter!

**To Angels Ghost** Thank you for the reference to Marianne Curley; I have not read any of her work, but will add her to my list. For technical reasons at the present time I am unable to present links to my original (non-fan-fiction) work. If you wish, my e-mail is listed in my profile and I will be happy to elaborate in private. It is to be hoped that my new publishers will not be as heavy-handed with my forthcoming novel of historical fiction.

**ENOUGH ROPE**

The squad room of the Psuedopolis Yard City Watch was … a squad room, certainly. It's sort of the type of place that you expect that the Manchester United football club to come in, sweaty and muggy after a hard day on the pitch, strip out of their kits, take a quick shower and then change into something appropriate for an evening at the Ministry of Sound.

Except that … in Ankh-Morpork you didn't get designer carpeting. Or flat-screen televisions on the walls. Or fluffy towels. And almost certainly, the unwashed socks of a sweaty, tired group of footballers who had been practicing and playing for five hours in the hot sun and getting muddy smelled much, _much_ better than the Psuedopolis Yard squad room.

What you did get was the result of the Watch – initially being a human male dominated profession – suddenly having to deal with the realities of being an integrated, multiracial workforce. So that meant that certain individuals had to stop stealing the soap (Nobby), and take down the offensive pictures of ladies of questionable virtue (Nobby), start bathing more frequently (Nobby) and _oh gods will you stop eating those damned _mouse fat-and-garlic fishballs deep fried in lard and served with hot pepper sauce _in here?_ (Nobby).

There were a series of lockers, with curtains so that individuals could change in a relative lack of privacy, and a set of showers, with cold- and cold-running water. Well, it should have been water, but it was sludge from the Ankh that passed through a filter the King of the Golden River had installed. It reacted like water (mostly).

Harry was given his own locker, into which he put most of his regular clothes, as he was given an official watch uniform to wear. Carrot also issued him a regulation Watch truncheon, and Harry carefully concealed his throwing knives up his sleeves when Carrot wasn't looking.

He also got a badge, stamped (sat on) by Detritus before he left with Lance-Corporal Littlebottom. Harry looked at the badge carefully: it read "Ankh-Morpork City Watch, 705, Harry Potter. Fabricati Diem, Pvnc."

To him, this was the most prized possession so far: to come into a foreign city and be given the shield. It was a symbol that he was going to be trusted to work with his fellow officers. He cared enough to give his best, but he hoped it would not be too long before he took the badge off and replaced it with his Ministry of Magic Auror's badge. He was also issued a small homing pigeon in a cage (_a bit like Hedwig_, Harry thought) and a set of semaphore paddles.

"I think we should store your personal affects really at my boarding house," Carrot said. "I hope you don't mind living with dwarfs."

Harry looked up at Carrot again. "Not at all," Harry said. "But if you don't mind me asking…" he began tentatively.

"Go ahead," said Carrot, his smile as always fixed into place.

"Why exactly do you live with dwarfs?" Harry asked.

Carrot looked perplexed. "Why do I? Because I am a dwarf, of course."

Now it was Harry's turn. "You ah … you are?"

"Of course I am," Carrot said. "Can't you tell?"

"Um, well that is, I thought dwarfs were … not at as tall as you seem to be," Harry said. "And you don't seem to have a beard. Or long hair."

There had been a few other Watchmen in the squad room, and now the atmosphere became … dangerously quiet, Harry realized.

Then a voice spoke up. "He also doesn't smell like rat," said Angua. "And he doesn't carry an axe or a hammer."

It seemed she spoke in jest, but there was certainly an _edge_ to it.

Finally another dwarf came up. "Look, mate, I know you're new in town, where you from again?"

"From Lon- the Counterweight Continent," Harry said quickly.

The dwarf frowned. "Don't know where Lon- is," he said. "Been to the Counterweight Continent a couple a' times, too." He looked at Harry menacingly.

"Believe me, you'd miss it," Harry said. "Even I give it a miss, as often as possible."

The dwarf grunted. "Righ. Well, I know there ain't a lot of dwarfs on the Counterweight Continent, but you better learn this right now: Carrot's one of us, see? Got a problem with that?"

"No," said Harry quietly.

"Good, cause I live in that boarding house, too," the dwarf said. "Sef Stronginthearm. I'm sure if Carrot says it's okay, then there won't be any problems. But we don't like too many humans around. It's one thing for … Carrot's friend, but too many humans … we get a bit touchy, got it?"

"Got it," said Harry quietly.

Carrot intervened. "Let's go. That's enough, Constable Sef. You should be out on patrol by now. Got everything, Harry?"

Harry nodded and he, Carrot and Angua left the squad room and began to walk over the Brass Bridge, which Harry noted was made of wood. They walked in silence for a bit.

"He was adopted," Angua said.

"I'm sorry?" Harry asked.

"Carrot. He was adopted by dwarfs as a child," she explained.

"Oh, I see," Harry said. "So you never knew your birth parents?"

Carrot and Angua stopped. There was a _very_ dangerous silence indeed. Finally Carrot said "I don't have many memories of them."

"I'm sorry," Harry said. "The same thing happened to me."

Carrot turned and looked at him closely. "What did you say?"

"The same thing happened to me," Harry said. "My parents were killed when I was very young, so I don't have any memories of them. I was raised by a … foster family, too."

_That's near enough the truth, anyway_, he thought.

Carrot and Angua exchanged a look. "Well, it seems we have more in common, perhaps, than we thought," Carrot said. "How long have you been a Watchman?"

"We call ourselves Aurors, where I'm from," Harry said. "After school I went to a two-year training program, and I've been on active duty ever since … into my fifth year, now."

They continued walking and reached what appeared to be a large inn. "The Quene's Head: Rooms for Let," beckoned a large blue sign. They walked around the back, and Carrot greeted a woman skinning rats.

"Good day, Miss Axebaiter," he said.

"Oh, good to see you, Mr. Carrot," she said, smiling through her beard. "And Miss Angua, so nice to see you on your own two feet."

Angua smiled a bit forcedly. "A pleasure, Miss Axebaiter."

"Miss Axebaiter, I'd like you to meet Harry Potter," Carrot continued. "He's a new recruit for us and at present he'll be staying with me. Please add his room rate to my bill."

"Oh, there's no need for that, hon," she began.

"I insist, Miss Axebaiter," Carrot continued

"Well, very well, then," she said. "Four dollars a week, with four dollars in advance, luv," she said to Harry. He pulled out one of the 10AM notes he had been given. "Please keep the extra two dollars, Miss Axebaiter," Harry said. "I'm sure we'll be taking meals or buying bread or something."

She looked at Harry appraisingly. "You eat bread, do you?"

Carrot looked so pleased he could burst. "Harry! You didn't tell me you ate bread! Why, that makes you practically a dwarf! I'm so glad to hear it. When the others hear this, they'll certainly ask you to join them for a meal and some fellowship."

Angua smiled, amused. "That's not precisely what he meant," she said. "But we don't have much time now. Let's go up and drop off your things."

She pulled out a key she wore around her neck on a very small … _what did Hermione call those things?_ Harry thought. _A choker, that was it_. They entered, walked up stairs, and went into a hall to room 9. She unlocked the door, and entered a tastefully decorated bedroom attached to a small sitting area, with a small second bedroom in the back. She walked into the second bedroom, pulled a few things out of the closet, and brought them into the main bedroom.

"You've got the back," she said, moving some clothes into a closet built into the wall, shunting aside some of Carrot's extra uniforms.

Harry watched for a moment, feeling stupid. "Um, you and Captain Carrot _are_ …"

"Yes," Carrot responded. "We _are_."

"Right then," said Harry, carefully putting things into the small bedroom. _Given how powerful my magic is here, I'm a bit nervous to try a silencing charm_, he thought. _We'll just have to see how it goes_.

As he came out, Angua looked at him sharply. "Put the knives away, too," she said. "You use the standard Watch equipment you were issued, and no aides to it."

"How did you know?" Harry began, but she cut him off. "They've been used before. There's dried blood on them. I know," she said.

Harry walked back into his room and examined the knives closely. They had been cleaned, but now he could see a small amount of dried blood on the silk that covered the tang. _I'll be damned_, he thought. _How did she figure that out_?

"You hungry?" said Carrot. "Our watch is going to start tonight at 11 bells. We can get something to eat and nap before the night shift. I can get some bread, if you want."

Angua smiled. "Harry, you don't actually know what dwarf bread is, do you? I'm sure it's not available where you come from."

Carrot's brow wrinkled. "Aren't you from Lon- on the Counterweight Continent? I know there are only a few dwarf populations there, but you can get bread."

Angua smiled. "Right. Harry's from the _Counterweight Continent_." Her grin flashed toothily at him. "Okay, Harry, since you clearly don't get much dwarf bread _where you are from_, I'll tell you that dwarf bread are rocks. Literally. They're totally inedible for most humans. The dwarfs use them as weapons. So I suggest we get a Katchian Hots, extra mushrooms. That's a vegetarian pizza. Sound okay?"

Harry looked at her. _She knows_, he thought. _But I'm not admitting anything. I'm living my cover. I'm from the Counterweight Continent. _Then another thought. _She's nice, at least. She didn't let me just eat the dwarf bread. She didn't object to me taking her room in her boyfriend's house. I need to be nice to her_.

He smiled. "That sounds great. And then maybe you can fill me on our assignment tonight? I am very fortunate to be working with such an experienced team. I'm sure that I will learn a great deal from you both."

Carrot's smile threatened to cut his face in two, and even Angua looked pleased. "I'll run out and get it," she said. "Ron's Pizza Hovel pretty much always makes it the way I want when I show up _in person_. Carrot, you can explain to Harry what the plan is." Both men watched as she bounced out of the room.

There was a pause.

"She seems a very nice fellow officer," Harry said.

"She's the most amazing person I know," Carrot said, still looking at the door.

"Sounds like my girlfriend, too," Harry said.

"You have a girl friend?" Carrot said.

"Or she has me," said Harry. "I don't know which. Her name is Hermione. We've been dating for about eight years now."

"Wow, such a long time!" Carrot said. "Do you have plans to get married?"

Harry shuddered. "Um, maybe. It's … complicated. Right now, we're just … trying to figure out a middle ground."

Carrot looked interested. A bit _too_ interested, Harry thought. But the Captain quickly changed the subject by bringing out a map and setting it on the table. "Here's the Ankh, and this is the Brass Bridge," Carrot said. "This has been the pattern of attacks so far – the one on Sweevo was here, Nuggan here, and Annoia here." His hand moved across the map, then stopped on a red X. "This is a small temple to Monolith, the troll god," he said. "One of our officers, Constable Dorfl, has been smuggled into the shrine to take the place of the sacred statue." He looked up at Harry. "The trolls _do not_ like this, and I must say I agree with them. Normally we wouldn't be disenfranchising their god, even temporarily. However, in this case, as Angua has informed me, we cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. Sergeant Detritus can't accompany us on this mission since he can't be seen to be condoning what is officially blasphemy. So he'll be patrolling the Shades later tonight.

"Our job is to stake out the temple, and if possible apprehend the perpetrators. We don't know how they intend to take out this temple, since trolls are made mainly of rock, which doesn't burn easily, and this is temple carved from rock. All the other temples were burned. But we're pretty sure they're going to hit this temple tonight. They've also got plans against the temple of the Seven-handed Sek and the Ode to Errata, but our informant suggests that this is the first one they'll hit."

Harry nodded. "Where will we be?"

"Dorfl inside the inner sanctum, which is about the size of a broom cupboard. You and I will be in a second-floor office across the street, in an upstairs room that's normally used as a counting room. We'll have access to the temple from two different ramps across the street. Angua will be … about, you know, around the street probably."

"Won't it be dangerous for Angua to be on the street alone?" Harry asked.

"Almost certainly not," Carrot said, smiling, as the lady in question re-entered the room with a pizza and a bag, containing a few bottles of ale.

After reviewing their plans, the three all went to get a few hours of sleep. It was important, Angua informed her two men, that they try to be at their best at night.

Harry did not sleep well. Perhaps it was because his mattress had been stuffed with firewood, or the noise from the Inn made it sound as if he were lying next to a giant with indigestion. He finally decided that he was nervous about the operation, and making a good second impression, since his first impression was still being cleaned up, grudgingly, by a group of habituals in lieu of paying a fine.

He thought he heard some scraping noises and something that suspiciously sounded like a dog when he was in half-sleep, but said nothing when Carrot formally woke him.

"Where's Angua?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"She'll … meet us there," Carrot said. He picked up his truncheon, and tied on a sword belt, which held a short sword in a scabbard. Harry looked at it questioningly. "Captain's privilege," was all Carrot said.

They walked down the road. Ankh-Morpork by night was definitely a more threatening city, Harry decided. He had been almost accosted three times by thugs, many of whom only stopped when they saw Carrot next to him.

Finally they arrived at a dimly-lit alley. (Dimly-lit, of course, is a relative term; here it means that if you were blessed with military-issue night-vision goggles, light would be perfectly adequate. Or if you were a bat.) Carrot motioned him into an even darker corner, which Harry's eyes eventually made out into a doorway. Carrot moved silently up the stairs, which seemed to creak only when Harry stepped on them. As they arrived at a second-floor landing, Harry made out an individual with a candle approaching them.

"All right Captain Carrot?" came the voice. Harry could barely see the speaker, but did notice that the head seemed to be an … awkward angle.

"All right, Mr. Slant," Carrot said cheerfully. "We do appreciate your assisting the Watch in our inquiries."

Mr. Slant lurched. "It's the responsibility of all lawyers, of course, to assist the law if it is within our interest. And billable," he said.

"We'll be here," Carrot said. " I think you had best return to your own duties so that it does not unduly reveal our presence."

"Of course, Captain," Slant said. He looked down at Harry. "A new apprentice?"

"Constable Potter is a new recruit who has joined us from the Counterweight Continent," Carrot claimed. "We're trying to promptly get him some practical experience."

Slant nodded, which moved his head to the other side of his body. "I'll be off, then," and shimmered away.

Harry had been watching him carefully. The lawyer was clearly a zombie. _Reserve judgment_, he thought. "Where can we see the street?" he asked Carrot.

"Over here," Carrot said. They peered out of an open window across the balcony and into the street. Harry made out a cement-looking archway, with flaming torches on either side of the portal. There was some type of sign over it, but Harry was not up on Runes, and even if so, would not have made out its meaning (which were the ancient troll words invoked by nearly all trolls when they were hefting a rock: 'look out!').

He could just see that the through the archway, was another door, which was partially open, and clearly had a statue inside of it. "Dorfl?" he asked, making the strange name sound as best he could. Carrot nodded almost imperceptibly. Harry looked again at the scene. The entire temple structure, as it were, was only about eight feet high, six feet wide, and five feet deep. _Either the troll god wasn't attracting many followers, or the pious observed ceremonies one at a time_, thought Harry.

They stood, almost motionless, for nearly two hours. Several times Harry saw a brownish-yellow dog wander around, but there was no other sound. For nearly two hours, that is.

On what would have been the time when the minute hand moved over to signify when it _was_ two hours, all hell broke loose.

First, someone tossed what Harry would describe later (with grave difficulty) as a Molotov cocktail. This lit up the doorway with blinding light and fire, and permitted the other assailants to fire some kind of siege weapon at the doorway. The bundles of rock and pitch smashed the door to the inner temple.

Constable Dorfl, being a golem, was fireproof, but the rocks smashed him through the back of the shrine. There was a howling from the left, as Harry saw the dog return and bite one of the Grave Gourmands on the leg. "Come on!" he heard, and his head spun. Carrot was already down the stairs, truncheon in hand, and on his way out the door. Harry elected to run to the balcony, where he could look down at the scene.

"You are under arrest for conspiracy to make an affray," Carrot was saying calmly. "If you surrender, I can assure you that we will listen to your petition quite carefully."

One of the Death Eaters – _Grave Gourmands_, Harry forced himself to think – just began laughing at that. He motioned with his fists. "Get the copper!"

Wearing black, at least four of them spun from their positions beside the wall, surrounding Carrot. Now Harry planned his move carefully. Two more steps … one more … and the Death Eater – _GRAVE GOURMAND_, yes I know, thank you, stop distracting me – was in perfect position.

Harry jumped off the balcony, twisting in the air as the Grave Gourmand – hah, got it right, that time – raised an axe.

Harry's feet landed just below the Grave Gourmand's shoulder blade. "Arrgh!" was the only word as he fell to the ground. The dog – a wolfhound, Harry saw – jumped on a second attacker. This left Carrot facing only two attackers, and rather than use his truncheon, he chose a gauntleted fist. The _smack_ that resulted left only one would-be attacker, who suddenly got a bad case of panic.

The remainder of the attackers – however many there were, it was more than four – began to retreat with the job half finished. "Don't pursue them!" Carrot shouted when Harry began to show chase. "Let's get Dorfl on his feet, first."

"Maybe I can use a spell to stop them and hold them down," Harry said, thinking about how carefully he would need to gauge his magic.

"Okay," Carrot said finally. "Give it a shot."

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. He wanted to use the _incarcerous_ charm to glamour some ropes that would tie up the perpetrators, without causing too much harm.

He thought carefully and felt himself summon magic physically. "_Incarcerous!_" he said confidently.

"Umm … was that what you meant to do?" Carrot said uncertainly. Harry opened his eyes.

Ropes were _everywhere_, making a spider's web of the street. A few handed landed in the mess of the temple door and were on fire. They created a veritable wall between Carrot, Harry, and the Grave Gourmands, who produced extremely sharp knives, and quickly began to slice their way through the ropes, grabbing their injured colleagues.

"Maybe I can use a cutting charm," Harry began, but Carrot put his hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps not just yet," Carrot said. "Besides, we can use the ropes to help pull up Dorfl."

They made their way through the mess to where Dorfl was still on his back inside the ruined temple doorframe.

"Dorfl? Can you hear me?" shouted Carrot.

"Yes," Dorfl said, simply.

"You're going to be too heavy for us to lift," Carrot said. "Can we use these ropes to hoist you up?"

"If You Pass The Ropes To Me Over The Archway, I Can Use The Leverage To Pull Myself Up," Dorfl said.

Carrot looked down at the wolfhound. "Grr," it said quietly, and pulled the ropes into its mouth, and scampered up a few nooks and crannies to get to the top of the archway, before backing down carefully again. It avoided the burning pitch and handed the ropes to Dorfl, who pulled and promptly hauled himself up.

The Golem walked over to the burning oil and stamped on it repeatedly until the fires were out. Carrot, meanwhile, had drawn his captain's short sword and was cutting a path through the rope.

"Don't worry about trying to pick it up," Carrot said. "People will come and take what they need. By morning it will be clear."

Harry was humiliated. His magic clearly was having some _additional_ power in Discworld. He sighed. He had meant to be able to tie up the Grave Gourmands, and give the Watch a chance to interrogate them. Instead, he had just gotten in the way. Again.

"That was really amazing," Carrot said. "I thought wizards were just useless, but you clearly learn a lot more practical things on the Counterweight Continent."

"Huh," said Harry, looking down.

"Just look at all this fabulous rope! It's really useful," Carrot said. "I don't think we ever would have got Dorfl up without it."

"I Think I Will Take Some Of This With Me," Dorfl said, sppoling a few dozen feet of cord around his arm. "I Will Report Back To The Cable Street Particulars, Captain Carrot."

"Very well, Constable Dorfl. And a very good showing from you this evening," Carrot said.

"Thank You Sir," Dorfl said, as he walked away.

Harry was looking dejected. The wolfhound was sniffing him quite closely. Harry put his head on the animal's head and scratched her behind the ears. "Hey, girl," he said absently, and then looked up at Carrot. "This a Watch dog?" he asked. The animal growled low. Harry looked down, and realized the animal wasn't a dog at all; in fact, it was a wolf, but the most well-manicured wolf he had ever seen. Its muzzle and mane positively glowed.

Carrot rubbed its head affectionately. "Sort of. Go on ahead, we'll see you," he said, patting the wolf, which barked and ran off.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to screw up so badly," Harry said miserably. " I mean … we had them, and I blew it with that damn spell."

"What?" asked Carrot absently. He had been inspecting the small mangonel that had been used to demolish the temple. "Oh, we didn't do so badly," he said. He lashed out with hissword and smashed the mangonel into pieces. "We've taken out one of their siege weapons, and prevented them from damaging the sacred statue. I'll have Detritus bring it back tomorrow."

"What now?" Harry asked.

"Let's go to the Watch pub," Carrot said. "I'm sure that Commander Vimes will be there, and we will introduce you to some of the other Watch members.

_Great_, thought Harry. _Not even a week and I get to be chewed about by two different commanding officers._

"Okay," he said, unwillingly. "Let's go."


	9. When the Sacred Ginmill Closes

**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE**

Dear **Lady Savage**, you most kind of reviewers, thank you again! (Pouring glass of the fine product of Loretto, Ky., for the dear lady.) I'm inclined to agree with you; I am forcing it a bit. If I had the luxury of writing on one day, putting it down, and coming back to edit it the next day, then I believe that I would be re-writing better. Unfortunately, I am pushing faster than I should, as real life is intruding, and I get less time than I would like for FFdotcom.

Lots of references in here (besides the obvious Block one). Huge apologies to Steven Spielberg, Rob Paulsen and Maurice LaMarche for the one at the end. Slightly less huge apologies to Paul Giamatti.

**WHEN THE SACRED GINMILL CLOSES**

They walked for some time, back over the Brass Bridge, and to a nondescript building just down from the Watch house. There was no sign to advertise its custom; this was a place you either knew about, or were invited to, but didn't make the mistake of knocking on unannounced.

As they entered the dingy pub, Harry noticed the device on the door, barely legible through the grime: 'The Sacred Ginmill.'

"It used to be called the 'Mended Drum,'" said Carrot, "but the publican changed it a few years back when he became an Omnian."

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the low candles and the blue haze of smoke from a dozen reeking pipes, he finally found Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, sitting between Angua and a dwarf. He was smoking his cigar and drinking a cup of coffee. Angua was drinking a glass of wine. The dwarf had a glass of what appeared to be sherry.

"So in any event, sir, I'm not sure what else we could have done. In total there were 12 of them, all heavily armed. When Potter took out the one on Carrot, they started to flee. Had Dorfl not gotten hit with the shot from the mangonel, I think we could have managed them," she was saying. "At least we're all alive to fight another day, sir."

Carrot and Potter sat down, and following Carrot's beckoning arm, the publican came over with two mugs of mead. The two Watchmen joined their colleagues, but were careful to say nothing. They both looked at Vimes' face.

Vimes did not look pleased. In fact, from Harry's long experience in dealing with displeased superior officers, he had the expression of barely maintaining his ability to be calm. But he did not shout, yell, or do any such thing; he merely nodded.

"Cherie?" he said quietly.

The dwarf nodded.

"Well, it's like your hunch, sir. There were definitely a lot of Igors there, but I don't know exactly how many," she said. "We managed to get out of Doughnut that they had been experimenting on several dead horses, but he passed out before he could tell us how many. Based on the results from the Quirm 100, and the amount of blood and ichor I found, I'd say at least six horses.

"And there's something else; there was a power source, there, too. I don't know what it was, but it was heavy, and hooked up with copper wire. If I didn't know better, sir, I'd say it was necromancy. But why would anyone want to revive a dead horse? Surely once they've been beaten that's enough."

_Why indeed_, thought Vimes. _If Albus were here I would ask him._ He sighed.

Harry stared at Vimes' face. The Watch commander looked about a thousand years old.

"Now do you two want to tell me how you screwed everything up?" he said quietly. He did not make eye contact.

_Hugely bad sign_, Harry said, and swallowed.

"It's my fault, sir," Harry said, expressionless.

"Indeed," Vimes said. "Care to elaborate?"

"Sir, I've been in Ankh-Morpork less than 24 hours. I've no idea how things work here," Harry said. "I've used two spells which normally should have an effective range of about 20 feet, and an effective duration of less than one minute.

"For some reason, everything is concentrated. I've tried to tone down the power I'm drawing, but it only seems to be concentrated. My over-use of power tonight allowed the culprits to escape. The mission failed because of me," Harry said.

"I think that's a little strong," Carrot said. "The mission failed because we didn't have enough manpower, not that we ever do. Had we had Dorfl on our side, we would have that group of Grave Gourmands back in the Watch House at this very minute. We didn't think they'd have a siege weapon. They are clearly more organized than we first appreciated."

Vimes just nodded, and finally made eye contact with Potter. Harry saw his look of deep distaste.

"I went to see someone this afternoon, Potter," he said. "Apparently Albus Dumbledore did die more than five years ago."

Harry just stared out him.

"That's a dam' shame, Potter, because I don't know if we're up to solving this problem without him," Vimes said evenly.

"Come, Commander,' Carrot said. "We've solved lots of serious incidents without undue outside interference."

"Very few have had these overtones, Captain," Vimes replied.

He turned back to Harry. "As of this moment, Potter, I am ordering you to not use _any_ of the magic you have learned up this point in your life, or to use any of your magic devices from … _home_. None. Not one. Clearly they are too powerful, and I don't want to lose my officers as a result of your unfriendly fire. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

"Yes sir," Harry said, quietly.

"Crystal clear?" Vimes persisted.

"Sir, yes sir," Harry said. "So long as I am part of the Watch, I will not use any of my magic from home, sir."

"Learning to be a Watchman, Harry, is a tough thing. You're going to need to be in touch with your mugg- your human side, do you understand me?" Vimes said.

_He almost said muggle,_ Harry thought. _He knows a lot about Earth. I need to keep up the pretence, and become Discworldian_.

"Yes sir," Harry said.

"Carrot and Angua will help, but overall, Potter, you're going to have to learn to use less magic and more common sense. The dwarves will help, too. I'll probably assign you to work with Cherie a bit, since as a forensic alchemist she picks up more things at the crime scene than the other officers," Vimes said.

"But, and please let me make this clear, Potter, you'd better learn to be a Watchman _fast_. Because we don't have the luxury of time to figure out how you _might_ help with your magic," Vimes continued. "If things all go to hell, Potter, believe you me I will be happy in throwing you to the demons from the dungeon dimensions."

"Understood, sir. Crystal, sir," Harry said miserably.

"Ok, Potter, that's enough, then, for now," Vimes said. "Anything else, Carrot?"

There was an uncomfortably long pause.

"Right, then, if it's all the same to you, sir, I'll be off to get some sleep," Harry said. "Between the trip here and the events of earlier yesterday, I'm a bit exhausted."

"Right, Potter. Go on, then," Vimes said.

"Shall I accompany you, Harry?" Carrot asked.

"No, I'll make it," he said. "But I guess I need a key …"

Carrot gave him his key. Harry smiled wanly. "See you tomorrow," he said.

After he left, Angua stood up. "If it's all the same to you, sir, I'll just make sure he gets home." She walked to the door, and with a clink, took off her armor. This was apparently a well-understood tactic, because Sgt. Colon immediately picked it up and placed it on a hook.

Less than twenty minutes later, she walked back in the door, and picked up her armor, and tied the breastplate on. She walked back to the table. "He made it fine," she said. "Now, sir, with all due respect, would you please tell us where he's really from?"

"I thought we established that," Carrot said. "He's from Lon-, on the Counterweight Continent. Although I admit I've never heard of Lon-."

"Please. He's nothing of the sort," snorted Angua.

"Are you certain?" Carrot asked.

"You calling this nose wrong?" Angua retorted. "I got a _good_ sniff of him at the Temple of Monolith earlier. He's no more from the Counterweight Continent than I'm from Four Ecks. Now, sir, please?"

Vimes looked into his cup. "You're quite correct, Angua. He's not from the Counterweight Continent," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir," she said expectantly. Even Carrot looked interested.

"_Hurry up, please, it's time."_

"However, and as far as the two of you are concerned, he's from the Counterweight Continent, unless he chooses to tell you otherwise. Got it?" Vimes said, in a bored tone.

"Sir, I really would appreciate a bit more than that," she said. "What I smelled on him was…" she shuddered.

"What?" Vimes prompted.

"He _reeks_ of magic. It's all over him. He's … just not all human, sir. No wizard I've ever smelled is even close to as powerful as he is. And he doesn't smell like _anyplace_ I've ever smelled. A mix of octarine, olive green and sky blue. And maybe a just a faint smidgen of a nutty Edam cheese."

Vimes continued to look at his coffee.

"Sir?" she said, realizing she wasn't going to get an answer she wanted.

"I've already said, Corporal, what I intend to say on the matter," Vimes said.

"Yes, sir," Angua sighed.

Vimes continued to stare into his coffee. "In one way or another, Potter's the key to all this," he said. "The dam' thing is, Potter either doesn't realize it, or is having trouble finding out _how_ he's the key. We've _got_ to keep him alive, and yet at the same time, a large part of me wants to dump him in the Ankh at high tide to wash our hands of the matter."

"Oh, you wouldn't want to do that, sir," Carrot said. "After all, he could just walk away, and in any event, he wouldn't get very clean that way."

Vimes looked at Carrot for a second, then looked away. "We'll have a squad meeting tomorrow, and go over the maps again," he said. "Then we'll check with the Cable Street Particulars and see if they've had any look at the other temples."

"_Hurry up, please, it's time."_

"Should I do that now, sir, and bring their reports to the meeting tomorrow?" Carrot asked.

"_Hurry up, please, it's time."_

"No, let's all go home and get a decent night's sleep, and we'll send a runner to Cable Street before the squad meeting," Vimes said. "I'm not sure if I want to read the report before I set into motion my plan for tomorrow night."

"Why sir? What are we going to do tomorrow night?" Carrot asked.

"The same thing we do every night, Carrot. Try to prevent people from taking over the world."


	10. Out On the Cutting Edge

**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

Wowzers! More than 1K hits on my story in less than two weeks! (Dances minor jig.) Of course, my Cthulhu fic has had less than half the hits and it's been up twice as long. (Pouts.) Either you like humor, or dislike horror (or I'm lousy at writing one of these stories). Either way, you know there, lads (-ies), you can review as well as read (hint hint)! I've _lots_ more of the fine product of Loretto, Ky., to doll out t'y'all!

**OUT ON THE CUTTING EDGE**

Harry finally woke up feeling as if his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, and found it to be true. The pounding headache he was used to from years of fighting off mental attacks from Voldemort, but the ramifications of Roundworld/Discworld travel, the botched stake out from last night, the hideously uncomfortable bedding, and the drinking late in the evening had sent him to bed feeling lousy. All of the former might have been justification for his ill-feeling, but what really sent him over the edge was the ban on magic.

As soon as he'd arrived back in Carrot's room, he'd gone straight for his mirror, intending to contact Hermione. But reflecting on things, he decided not to use it. It was a magic device from his own world, and he'd given his pledge to Commander Vimes not to use magic. He hadn't fully made a wizarding oath, it was true, but to Harry he felt obligated to keep his word regardless, and mournfully kept the wooden case shut and not spoken to his lady friend.

In his painful morning half-daze, he wandered into Carrot's combination welcome room/bedroom/dining area. There was a mug and a pot of a coffee-like substance on the table, and a note.

"Dere, Hairy,

I wille meet you at, the Watche Housee, Butt I must go to Cable Street firste to get, some papers. Period. Then I will meet you at the Watche Housee for the Squad Meeteing. Period. Have, some coffee. Period.

Carott. Period."

_You don't need papers, looks like you need some help with writing_, Harry thought. But he poured out some coffee. It was lukewarm, bitter and sour at the same time, but still clearly caffeinated. _Oh well. I guess Watch coffee is the same the world – the Disc – over,_ Harry thought.

He pulled on his uniform and shuffled through the streets across the Brass Bridge and first went to behind the station to the latrine – _right_ this time. It was indistinguishable from the one he had been on the left side, but still serviceable.

He entered the squad room. There were a few dwarfs, Detritus the troll, Dorfl the golem, Angua, and a few humans … except maybe for the … monkey? … missing link? … over in the corner.

Harry was tapped on the shoulder, and he turned to meet a tall, thin human. "Greetings, Harry Potter, I am glad to meet a new Watchman," said the stranger. Harry noticed other people in the room shudder. "Pleased to meet you," Harry said. "You are-"

"Constable Visit-the-Infidel-with-Explanatory-Pamphlets," Visit said. Harry stretched to catch this.

"Visit-"

"-the-Infidel-with-Explanatory-Pamphlets," Visit finished.

"I see," Harry said, not seeing at all.

"May I ask, Harry, whether you have considered the damned state of your soul? Are you perhaps a follower of the Almighty Om?" Visit inquired.

"Of – who?" Harry asked.

"Don't mind Washpot," said the monkey-looking man. _How can you _speak_ grubbily,_ Harry wondered. "He just wants to give you some of the pamphlets what he leaves in all the other temples."

Visit looked hurt. "Would you like a pamphlet, Harry?"

Harry had been through enough to realize that the fastest way to get rid of most unpleasant visitors was to give in to their demands as quickly as possible and then avoid them. "Oh, certainly Constable Visit, I'd appreciate that." _I haven't found any toilet paper so far_.

Visit almost cried. "Here, Constable Potter, here!" Visit stuffed about four greasy pamphlets into Harry's hands. They bore titles like _Smiting the Inner Sinner _and _The New Revelations of the Old Prophecies Which We Now Think Are Probably Not Heretical._ "Should you wish to go out Exhorting with me, Harry, I would be most honored, Om be praised in a tasteful manner to other religions."

"Er, yes, well, perhaps some other time," Harry said. It seemed to have the right affect, since Visit wandered off to torment another youthful watchman. At that moment, Vimes and Carrot strode in.

"Attention the Watch!" Sergeant Colon bellowed. Harry rose along with the rest of the Watch house.

"At ease," Vimes said, lighting a cigar. The Watchmen sat down. "Right. Listen up. Carrot has details regarding last night's attack on the Temple of Monolith, as some of you may have already read in this morning's edition of the _Times_. We'll start with that." He nodded in Carrot's direction.

"Last night, four Watchman were involved in an operation to stop the wanton destruction of sacred property that has allegedly been occurring by the group the Grave Gourmands," Carrot began. "The attack on the Temple of Monolith was largely unsuccessful, and the sacred statue and premises were not badly damaged. The perpetrators were using a siege weapon of relatively recent construction. Unfortunately, none of the alleged perpetrators could be caught."

"What types of rock and timber were used in the device, Captain?" asked Cherie Littlebottom.

"Cable Street has some of those over there, Corporal Miss Littlebottom," Carrot said. "We'd appreciate your expertise on them. It might help us locate where the mangonel was constructed, and thus where the base is.

"Now at the present time, our informant has alerted us to the fact that at least two other temples are likely to be targets. Since the Grave Gourmands will be expecting Watchman, I would like to propose that Constable Downspout and Constable Reg Shoe take the lead on surveillance for the other two temples, with two teams of Watchmen in reserve, who can be there in a minute's notice should attacks occur. I will be putting together a list of Watchman who will be drawing double duty today to protect these sacred spaces."

There was a general groan at this. _No different if I was in Auror headquarters and Shacklebolt just announced an extra shift_, thought Harry glumly.

"As always, keep your ears open and keep Watching," Vimes said. "I want this group badly."

"Next item. As many of you know, reports have come in from all over the city regarding the strange behaviour of the Igors. I have asked Igor about Igor, but it doesn't appear at this time Igor was involved. Still, you will all remember – particularly you, Dorfl – the last time we had something like this happen. People ended up dead. I am not expecting any funerals over this, Watchmen. Igors are supposed to save lives, not take them."

"Sir, what is it that Igor is doing, exactly," one of the dwarfs Harry had not met asked.

"Good question. As you know, most of the Igors communicate with their entire community, but they do not have to share their communication if they choose not to do so. Igor has been left out of the loop on what Igor initially asked, but it seems that Igor and Igors after that Igor have been ignoring their usual trade to deal with … necromancy."

There was a shudder throughout the Watchroom. _That shook them up_, Harry thought. _But which Igor is which? Of course, if it _is_ necromancy, that means that Igor is a witch, unless Igors is a witch … which Igor is witch?_

_I have got to talk though this with someone_, he thought, shaking his head.

"Question, Constable Potter?" Vimes asked.

"Er – not at this time, sir. I just don't think I've met Igor," he said, in what was probably the only safe thing to say.

Vimes looked at him sharply and nodded. "I don't think Igors are very common on the Counterweight Continent, are they?"

"No, sir, at least not in Lon-" Harry responded.

"Right, I'm assigning you to work with Littlebottom on this at present, Potter," Vimes said. "You'll learn more about the facets of Ankh-Morpork that way. Interview Igor and Igor, and Igor, too, if necessary."

_Seems a safe enough cover_, thought Harry. _But I still have no idea what he means._

"What else, Carrot?" Vimes said.

"Two more muggings and three rapes last night in the Shades," Carrot said. "Plus a bit of GBH over by the Misbegot Bridge. I don't think it was raining, so that seems very quiet. Sergeant Detritus?"

"Was quiet last night. Too quiet," Detritus said. "Someone know sumpin', I fink. Come to fink of it, der usual squad of gang boys seems a bit smaller – not so many of 'em to clump around."

"This might follow the pattern that more seem to be joining this new splinter group the Grave Gourmands. Reg? Any news on your end on that?" Carrot asked.

Harry looked – a _zombie? Merlin, these guys have _everyone. _Talk about your affirmative action program._

"'Sno news from the newly inhumaned," Reg said. "If they're takin' body parts, it's not from the main three cemeteries in the city."

Vimes puffed his cigar. "Littlebottom reported that several horses were dead or reported dead from the track. Although horse flesh presumably wouldn't be used for necromancy, the weight might, if they were trying to put a few hundred pounds weight of flesh into coffins. So keep your eyes open if there are a lot of sudden closed-coffin burials."

"Anyone else have a report?" he asked.

There was silence. "Right, that's it." The room began to move.

Colon barked up. The room lapsed back into rigidity. "Right you lot, the Watch! Let's look out for each others' backsides out there!" A small ragged cheer went up. The meeting was over.

Littlebottom sought out Harry. "Lance-Corporal Cherie Littlebottom. Forensic Alchemy," she said, offering out her hand.

"Constable Harry Potter, Lon-," Harry said.

"Right," the dwarf said, looking at him appraisingly. "So you've never met an Igor before."

"That's right," Harry said.

"Had breakfast yet?" Littlebottom asked.

"Not really," Harry said, truthfully. The pizza seemed a long time away. Maybe they would be able to get some baked beans on toast, or eggs and bacon, with any luck.

"Best way, then," Littlebottom said cheerfully. "We'll eat around lunchtime, but I'll probably grab myself a rat on a stick on the way. Let's go see Igor."

They walked out the Watch house parallel to the Ankh. Halfway down the street the dwarf strolled over to a vendor selling food out of a cart. "Morning, Mr. Dibbler. One rat on a stick, please," she said, then glanced at Harry. "Or do you want one, too? My shout," she offered.

"Er … no, not just now," Harry said. He looked into the cart and found Littlebottom to be telling the absolute truth. The man had a selection of deep-fried rats impaled on skewers.

"Right, that'll be a dollar," Mr. Dibbler said.

"Come, Mr. Dibbler, the price is always 50 cents for the Watch," Cherie said smiling firmly.

"Well, yeah, I guess, that's true," he admitted. "But it's cuttin' me own throat."

They exchanged specie and species and walked on, with Harry trying very hard not to watch the Watch sink its teeth into the rat with obvious relish.

"New to Ankh-Morpork, then?" she said between bites.

"My first time here," Harry said.

"Yeah, I thought you looked a bit dry behind the ears. Good nip in the Ankh'd fix that. Mind you, you might have to wash off, afterwards," she said, finishing off her nibbling on the tail. "Here we are," she said, walking towards a building whose marquee read 'Prosethetic Igorring – Military and Watch Service Our Specialty.'

"Igor runs the store ostensibly for all citizens, but in fact exclusively works for us at the Watch," she explained. "He hasn't joined the Watch officially, but this gives us both a good sense of work duty. Now one thing – don't mention his speech impediment, okay? Not word one."

"Got it."

She opened the door and walked inside. Harry followed her into what he believed was the cleanest area he had seen in Ankh-Morpork so far.

"Igor?" she said quietly.

"Yes?" said Igor, emerging behind them. Harry jumped – and something in his brain screamed _run_. He then dashed past the counter into the back. He looked back to see Cherie and someone – presumably Igor – staring at him.

"How did you _do_ that?" Harry asked.

Cherie smiled. "It's just one of those things Igors do," she said. "Why don't you come back and let's talk."

Coming to them, Harry looked closely at Igor … or was it 'the' Igor. The Igor was ... well, at least human looking, certainly. The man had three noses, innumerable scars, an extra ear, and … an extra arm? His face looked like ... the worst mass of tissue from the worst traffic accident imaginable.

"Tell Commander Vimes the noses are almost done, it's an extra week on the ear, and the arm will be ready by the end of Grune," the Igor said.

"Ah … what …" Harry said. He felt bile in his throat. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten.

"Harry, Igors are expert at creating regenerative body tissues," Littlebottom explained. "When we were dealing with this gang from Ephebe last month, they liked to waylay Watchmen and cut their noses or ears off. Igor grows one back on his own body about 80 percent, cuts it off, and then transplants it onto the recipient. With a bit of curetting, within about a month, you can't tell the difference. And it's a new appendage, so it works even better than the old one."

_And here about all we have worthy is Sekele-grow_, Harry thought. He was impressed, in spite of himself. "Can you do internal organs as well?"

"Of course," said Igor. "They are harder to replace, though. More infections during the process."

_Because you don't have the antiseptic environments we would in a hospital. Blimey, if muggles ever found out about this place … there would be a rush for it. Anyone who ever had a traumatic injury. Or was in an accident. The plastic surgeons would have a field day_. "Sorry, Mr. Igor, how exactly do you do this? Is it magic?" Harry asked.

"No magic involved in the way you think. We do need fat, though. Lots of it. About half a pound was involved just in this one ear," Igor said.

"We get most of our fat from Uberwald, where the fifth elephant landed," Littlebottom explained. "That's actually my home. The fat is mined by dwarfs deep underground, and then shipped to Ankh-Morpork."

"Very impressive," Harry said. "You're really on the cutting edge of traumatic medicine. Mr. Igor, how many other people are you in your profession?"

Igor looked confused. "You mean how many other Igors are there?"

"Er, yes, how many people are Igors?" Harry asked.

"No, _Igor._ Igor is dead," Igor explained.

"I see," said Harry blankly. "I thought _you_ were Igor."

"No, no, I'm Igor. You mean Igor," continued Igor.

The reality slowly dawned on Harry. "All of you are all called Igor? How do you know which Igor you want?"

"You just ask for Igor, of course," Igor said.

Littlebottom gave him a knowing look. "I heard Constable Littlebottom explain that there was a recent meeting of Igors. You didn't attend, I take it. How many Igors did attend?"

"About eight, I think. That means all the Igors in Ankh-Mopork save two," Igor said.

"Ten total in Ankh-Morpork," Harry said aloud. "And … where you're from … how many?"

"Not so many, any more. Only about 30," Igor said calmly.

"You didn't attend, but the others did," Harry said. "Why didn't they have you attend the meeting?"

For the first time, Igor looked uncomfortable. He maintained his silence and Harry persisted. "Perhaps they felt you and the other Igor weren't capable of helping them?"

"There's naught wrong with Igor! He's just a young Igor, he's only been Igoring about 50 years now," Igor shouted. "How was he to know that he couldn't …" his voice trailed off and Harry felt an inward glow of satisfaction.

"That he couldn't what?" Harry asked.

Igor's eyes narrowed. "Nothing, that's what."

Harry smiled. He knew this tactic. "And so you couldn't do it either, which is why they didn't invite you?"

The Igor was ready for this question, however. "No, I can do it, all right, but … it's bad enough that I work for Vimes. Igor doesn't really trust me anymore. Look, I really can't say." He looked at Littlebottom. "Igor drinks a bit too much now," he said finally. "He goes to the pub a lot. You know which one. He's depressed. If Igor wants to say something, fine. I had nothing to do with it."

Harry realized they were being asked, politely, to leave. He was trying to think of any last questions, when suddenly he got another piece of the jigsaw to fit.

"Igor, did you say it took half a pound of fat to grow that ear?" Harry asked.

The Igor's face was impassive, but he responded to his craft. "Yes, that's right. Could've done with less, but I really wanted it to look nice."

"Where do you store the fat?" Harry asked.

"It's officially purchased by the Ankh-Morpork government," Littlebottom said. "The carts bring it to a store room that's kept cool in between …" suddenly the dwarf's eyes narrowed. "In between the Patrician's Palace and the race track."

"Anything … unusual there recently?" Harry asked.

The Igor stared into space. Littlebottom stared at the ceiling. Finally she said "The Watch will be making inquiries, of course, in the normal course of our duties. Of course, it is a large area..."

Igor continued to stare into space. "Yes, I'm sure that everything is normal. I'm sure the Watch will find that everything is in order, particularly in the store rooms nearest the loading docks, where the carriages alight and toss off anything … damaged in shipment."

"Well, thank you for your time, Igor, I'm sure Commander Vimes will be encouraged about the situation regarding the appendages," Littlebottom said. "Let's go, Potter."

They walked for some time in silence. "That was good questioning back there," Littlebottom said.

"I only asked out of ignorance," Harry said. "I really didn't know anything about Igors."

"They were still good questions. Questions I wouldn't have thought of," Littlebottom said.

"What's next?" Harry asked.

"Cable Street to see the mangonel and send a clacks for a routine check on the fat deposits. Then we'll need to get Angua's help for tonight to talk with Igor," Littlebottom answered. She looked at Harry. "How about an early lunch, then?"

"Sure … is there somewhere we can get … um" Harry began.

"Not rat?" Littlebottom said, trying her best to look hurt.

"Please," Harry begged.

Cherie smiled. "Angua's a vegetarian, and so there's a nice place that does a lovely Ephebe salad with olives and cheese. You might prefer meat. Like most dwarfs I consider myself vegetable friendly, but right now I could sink my teeth into some bangers and mash."

"Lead me to it," Harry said.

"King's Head. Not too far," the dwarf replied, and led him towards the city center.

"By the way," Harry said. "You mentioned Igor had a speech impediment. I didn't notice it at all."

"Igors lisp, mainly. He doesn't," Cherie explained. "Ergo, a speech impediment."

Harry let this float over him. "You mean, he doesn't have a speech impediment, so _that's_ a speech impediment?"

"Precisely," she said.

Harry was silent for the rest of the walk to the King's Head.

"What are you thinking," she asked as they sat down and a waitress came to take their order.

"What an amazing amount I'm learning about Ankh-Morpork," Harry said. "It's like an onion."

"Smelly, prone to rot, but easy to stew and spice things up?" Littlebottom asked.

"I meant more that there were a lot of layers, but your statement seems accurate, too," Harry said. "We'll, let's eat, and then see where this lead takes us."


	11. Telling Lies for Fun and Profit

**A/N PLEASE READ THE DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

Thanks so much for all the great reviews! You are all such wonderful people that small children emulate your every behavior in hopes of growing up like you. (This means you now have to wonder if they are watching you _all the time_ and thus remain _constantly vigilant_ so they don't see something privy, if you get my drift.)

Sorry for not updating sooner; late August has arrived, and that means I am now spending my time on the weekends dressed in black-and-white stripes and cleats with a whistle … yes, it's true, I'm everyone's favorite villain, a football referee. This leaves me with precious little time to write on Saturday or Sunday, but don't worry … lots more still to come!

**Spagetti O's** CONGRATULATIONS! YOU GET FULL MARKS! (Pouring out _massive_ helping of the fine product of Loretto, Ky.) What the Igors have been up to is VITAL to the mystery. Up to this point, I have cunningly inserted four MAJOR clues that could help you solve the story. Within the next two chapters you should have enough information – if you're clever – to guess the mystery. If HP and SV can solve it in time, however … you have to read to the end to find out!

**TELLING LIES FOR FUN AND PROFIT**

They walked off to Cable Street. Harry was still thinking about what he had seen so far in Discworld, and then posed a new question to Littlebottom.

"So, Corporal Littlebottom, what exactly is a mangonel, anyway?" Harry asked.

The dwarf looked up at him suspiciously. She had been present when Vimes said he wasn't going to tell Angua or Carrot where Potter was from, and she had learned a few things about interrogation herself in her years on the force. She was going to use that experience now.

"Ah. A mangonel," she said.

"Yes, I think Captain Carrot said it was a siege weapon of some kind," Harry continued.

"Very true," Cherie replied. "I suppose you don't see them so often out there on the Counterweight Continent."

"At least, not where I'm from," Harry responded diplomatically.

Cherie eyes him closely for a moment, then resumed her focus on the street in front of them. "Well, he hasn't said so much, but I'm assuming it must be a small one," Littlebottom began. "A full size mangonel would normally require four trolls to carry and operate, or roughly 25 humans. You didn't see that many attackers last night?"

"No," Harry said. "Only about five."

"Right, well, mangonel is an old Latitian word. In full size, a mangonel is a single-arm, tension-torsion catapult. It can throw a boulder more than 1,000 feet. From what I've heard, it sounds as if this was a small version with a bucket arrangement that let it fire smaller stones and burning pitch. It would certainly explain how they could knock down those other temples," she said.

Harry thought about it for a minute.

"How big did you say they were?" he asked.

"At full size, about the size of a house," she said. "Two stories tall, easily. They take a long time to set up and break down. Which is why I'm interested at seeing this one, and in particular the wood it was made of."

"That's right, I remember you saying that at Pseudopolis," Harry said. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by that."

"You sit in a wooden chair at lunch?" she answered him with a question.

"Yes," Harry said.

"At a wooden table?" she asked.

"Yes," he said again.

"In a wood-frame house? And eat out of a wooden bowl with a wooden spoon?" she persisted.

"Yes, yes, and yes," said Harry, mildly aggravated. "So what?"

The dwarf stopped him in the middle of the hot summer street. "So look around you, Sonny Jim," she said. "Where the hell are all of the trees?"

Harry blinked and looked about him. It was true, he realized. In all the time he had been walking around, he hadn't seen a single tree. Now he cast his view further down the cross street they stood near. No trees there. None down by the Ankh.

"Okay, where are the trees?" he asked.

"None, in Ankh-Morpork," Cherie explained. "Yet we need them. Wood is vital for many things – construction, daily goods and siege weapons. So we import virtually all of our wood.

"The Patricians' Forest is just outside the main city walls to the North of us. It's a forest that primarily consists of red pine. Timber that is forested there is delivered to a part of the upstream Ankh and floated in through the city's water gate down to the Morpork region of the city, where the big timber yards then cut it into lumber and toss runoff back into the Ankh. The Patrician is very careful about how much wood is cut, when, and by whom. You have to have a license to cut it. So if we find one of the Patricians' brand marks on the wood, we know who cut it and when."

"Brilliant," said Harry. "But what if it isn't red pine?"

"Oh, that would be even more interesting," Littlebottom said. "It could be any of a number of woods that I can identify. I doubt that it was made of teak, liana, rosewood or mahogany, of course – those exotic hardwoods all come from the Agatean Empire or Four Ecks and they're damn' expensive – but it could be oak, for instance. Which would also give us an idea of where it was made."

At this point Cherie could no longer contain herself. "So being from the Counterweight Continent, I guess all the ones you'd have seen would be made out of red oak," she said.

"Er, yes," Harry said. "Lots of red oak on the Counterweight Continent. Big one near my house in Lon-."

"Mmm." Littlebottom pursed her lips. They walked near a clacks pole and saw a street sign that read 'Cabel Street'. "I assume this is it?" Harry asked.

Littlebottom said nothing but took a side street marked "Notan Alley."

"Don't know about the force in Lon-," she said, "but Cable Street is what we call around here our non-uni force."

Harry tried to understand. "Your non universe?"

"No, non-uni force. You know. Plainclothes," she said.

"Oh, right," Harry said. "Undercover."

Littlebottom gasped and turned to him. "No way! You really have Watchpeople in bed with their targets?"

"Sorry, figure of speech," Harry said. "I meant we don't wear a distinguishing uniform but blend in with the common people so that we can detect crime. That describes most of our force."

"I see," Littlebottom said, stroking her beard. "But what if there's a big riot? I mean, it's easier to control the population if they see a dozen uniforms running at them."

"Not much of a problem back home," Harry said. "Clandestine activities are our big headache."

"Okay," Littlebottom said. She looked up at the side of a tall building – a warehouse, Harry thought – and looked at a gargoyle that was on the side eave. After a second, a dim doorway opened across the street. "Let's go," she said, leading him inside.

She walked in and nodded to a few dwarfs who were writing reports. Harry didn't catch the full exchange she had, as it was in dwarvish, but eventually she finished and they walked toward a workshop in the back.

They entered a room in which a large table was set for tea. A group of painted wooden manikins sat in various positions as a butler in morning dress proffered a tray around. Finally he set it at the head of the table and the tray went flying through the air, decapitating the manikin at the end.

"Right, I want that ready for the Patrician's tea party on Thursday," came a voice, unperturbed at the violence. "Hello, Corporal Littlebottom."

"Hello, Qu," she said.

Harry had been gaping at the scene of the workshop of death, and turned to see Littlebottom in discussion with an elderly man with a shaved head, dressed in saffron robes. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" he said, turning to the elderly man.

"I said hello, Constable Potter. My name is Qu," Qu said.

"How did you know my name was Potter?" Harry asked.

"It's on your badge," Qu said.

"Harry, Qu is a member of the History Monks," Littlebottom explained. "Although they normally live within their sanctuary, the members of the History Monks are obliged to live in the world for part of their lives. One of the leaders of their order, Marco Soto, lives here in Ankh-Morpork and has kindly arranged for Qu to come to work with Cable Street for the next few years as his service. He's shown us any number of very … unorthodox devices which have come in quite useful in watch service."

Harry looked back at the teaset. "I reckon so," he said.

"You're not from Ankh-Morpork," Qu said. "From the Counterweight Continent, perhaps?"

"Yes, from Lon-, actually," Harry replied.

"Really?" Qu said in surprise. "I believe that's less than a day's walk from our monastery in the Ramtops. I was under the impression that no-one lives in Lon- anymore," he began.

"Very few," Harry interrupted.

"Because it is so overcrowded," finished Qu.

"Er," Harry began, unsure of what to say.

"What do you have to show us today, Qu?" interjected Littlebottom.

"I have reconstructed the mangonel," Qu said. "Shall we?"

They walked into a back room where the siege weapon, mostly back into working order, rested amongst other interesting implements of war. Harry was drawn to the peculiarity of some of the items on the workbench and began to examine them, as Littlebottom cast her expert eye over the wooden frame.

"Captain Carrot's attack on the machine was very effective," Qu said. "The damage was considerable. Luckily, there was a large amount of rope lying beside it, so it made it easy to drag the pieces and then re-build it. I'm glad I didn't need the wood that I had to rebuild it, since if I didn't have it, I would have needed it."

Harry just looked flummoxed by this. Littlebottom began looking at the joins as Harry picked up a small, folding paper fan. He flipped it out and ducked, as a series of thin, needle-like knives darted out of the fan, nearly decapitating him. Harry dropped the fan and hit the floor, and Qu was beside him in a flash, catching the fan before it hit the ground. The venerable monk merely smiled at him. "I can see you'll be quite a fan of my work, Potter," he said.

Littlebottom called Harry. "Potter, stop fooling around and have a look at this."

Harry walked over. "See the in-seam split? You can see right through to the wood there. The bucket's the same material. That's white oak, that is."

"I see," said Harry. "Where would a stand of white oak trees be found?"

"Probably Lancre," Littlebottom said. "No less than five days' good ride from here, if your horses are strong and the roads are good. If the roads are muddy and you can't get forage for your horses, could be two weeks."

Harry backed up and looked at the war weapon carefully. Although the warehouse wasn't that brightly lit, it was much better than the dark night. "If someone brought this from Lancre, surely it would have caused a sight. Wouldn't someone have noticed them on the city streets with it?"

"I doubt it," Qu said. "Even though you can observe a lot, just by watching." He walked around and pressed a lever. The mangonel collapsed, into an easily identifiable structure. "It's a horse cart!" Harry said.

"Mule, more like," Littlebottom said, looking at the axle. "But yes, this would explain how they got it past the Watch at the city gate. If they had a cover over it, like they usually do, it wouldn't even be a remarkable occurrence. Must be 300 carts coming in and going out each day – they just got lost in the middle."

Harry jumped into the 'bed' of the cart, which would be the folding arms of the mangonel. "Lots of carts every day, Corporal?" he asked.

"That's right, Potter," she said. "All carrying vegetables, meats, other goods for trade or sale."

"And there's a Watch at the gate, you said," Harry continued.

"Right again," Littlebottom said.

"Do people have to pay some kind of toll to get in?" he asked.

"Ah, the tariff!" the monk spoke up. "A crime, it is, that the Lord Patrician can levy a heavy fine even on us who have given up on the world. I have to pay a heavy toll every time my monastery sends me materials to work with here, and they end up just going back to the Watch. Really, the way it's going, a nickel isn't worth a dime, anymore."

"Um, right. So everyone pays a tax," Harry said. "So what did this cart carry, besides the mangonel? Rocks, maybe?"

"Good question, Harry," Littlebottom said. "I have a feeling it wasn't rock. Let's examine the shot."

The shot was on the table which contained the fan and some other items. Harry tried to pick up a piece of rock, misjudged the weight, and dropped it. Again, Qu with his amazing dexterity snatched the rock before it struck the floor.

"You're quite a catcher," Harry said.

"I managed," Qu said, imperturbably.

"So you see," Littlebottom said. "This is mainly building rubble. That piece of concrete even has some paint on the outside. No, they probably got the rubble locally."

"So we still don't know what they brought in from Lancre," Harry said.

"No, and that's an important point," Littlebottom said. "The absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. They probably brought in something, and we haven't seen it yet. We need to tell that to Commander Vimes.

"Anything else, Qu?"

"I think that's it for now, but thanks for making this visit necessary," Qu said.

Littlebottom nodded and walked to the door. Harry followed her and Qu grabbed his sleeve.

"I know you are not from here," Qu said, smiling benignly. "You are at a place where the roads intersect."

Harry thought. His life in London as an Auror was certainly in flux. In some ways he still missed his old friends who had died on the way, and hadn't really mourned them properly. This undoubtedly influenced his relationship with Hermione. Even though he was sure he loved her, he was terrified to commit to her ultimately. When his emotions were laid bare, Harry felt naked.

"I'm certainly at a crossroads," Harry said. The monk smiled and walked slowly with him. "It is important for you to know where it is that you are going. Otherwise, you will end up somewhere else," Qu said.

"Ah – ah – " _why do monks always speak in riddles?_ Harry thought. "I guess that's true," he said.

They approached the door, where Littlebottom was waiting for them. Qu smiled. "You have come to a fork in the road," the old man in saffron said. "My advice to you is, take it."

The old man faded back into the dimly lit warehouse.

"Old Qu likes you," Littlebottom says. "Passing on his baubles of wisdom like that."

"I guess," Harry said, staring back at the dimness.

They walked out into the hot, sticky Ankh-Morpork afternoon.

"Look, Potter, it's none of my business, but I'll level with you," Littlebottom said. "You're coming up a bit short on your answers. The old man and I know you're not from Lon-, wherever the hell that is. Firstly, red oak is not native to that part of the Ramtops, and you would never have had one growing by your house growing up, since red oak is only found in Four Ecks. Secondly, the Counterweight Continent's wars are full of the use of mangonels, and you didn't know what one was, whereas if you had really grown up there, you would already have known. Thirdly, you don't know whether Lon- is a big city or a small hamlet. Finally, Angua knows you're not from around those parts, too, and her opinion trumps all the others."

Harry said nothing. He just continued to stare straight ahead.

Finally the dwarf sighed. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. Surely you've seen enough of us by now to know we're a mixed bag of all sods. Trolls and dwarfs on the same force. Ghouls, gargoyles and golems. Even werewolves and a vampire and an Igor. And can't forget the humans, too. We're all pretty messed up, you know. We've all got our battles we're fighting. But there's one thing that keeps us together."

"What's that?" Harry asked finally.

"When we're out here, we watch out for each other's backsides," Littlebottom said. "I don't give a damn where you're from or what you did to get here. But when we're on patrol, I expect to go home the next day, and not be a chalk outline. Are we communicating here?"

"Corporal, the first attempt on my life came when I was 15 months old. Since then I've basically been fighting to stay alive more or less constantly," Harry said, completely truthfully. "I may not be from around these parts, but I understand the part to play. So I've got your back out here, and I expect you to have mine, too."

"Right, that's good," Littlebottom said. "I don't want to make a chalk outline around you, either. Now we've settled that, let's report to Vimes."

They walked back to the Pseudopolis in companionable silence. Learning from the desk that Vimes was in, they went into the hall and knocked on the door. From experience, Littlebottom didn't wait for a reply but entered.

"Ah, Littlebottom, Potter, just who I want to see," Vimes said, lighting a cigar. "What do you have to add?"

"Sir, the mangonel was made of white oak, almost certainly from Lancre," Littlebottom said. It was designed to fold up into a mule cart, which is probably how it was brought into the gate," she said. "We don't know if it was loaded with anything, though I'm sure that our lovely little boys brought some of their toys with them. The shot was local building rubble. I recognized part of it as that slab house that was knocked down last week."

"So there's a Lancre connection, and they probably brought something in we haven't seen yet," Vimes mused. "Anything else?"

"Yes, actually," the dwarf continued. "Potter wormed out of Igor that something suspicious is happening at the fat depository, near the entrance where they're dumping out the spoilage. I'd like permission to make our routine annual inspection soon. Also, Igor said that Igor may know a lot more about what's going on. I'd request Corporal Angua's assistance in tackling that interrogation, sir."

Vimes sat back and puffed smoke for a while. "You'll only get there late at night, and it won't be tonight," the commander said finally. "Requisition Angua for that tomorrow night. As for the fat deposits, that's a good idea. You can probably get Detritus to assist you, and three of you can tackle that –"

He was interrupted by a pound on the door and a breathless Sgt. Colon entered. He had grime on his uniform, and smelled of smoke.

"Sir, they've hit another temple. Hyperopia. Started a big fire, still burning. Casualties, too, this time," Colon managed.

Vimes drew a sword out of the back and began to equip. "How many?"

"Not sure, sir, at least a dozen was worshippin' the Sacred Lace at the time, and it was burnin'" Colon said. "And Nobby said that they Grave Gourmands was throwin' a lot of pamphlets about, too, to people and such around the temple."

Vimes turned. "Pamphlets?"

"Yessir, I haven't looked at 'em, neither has Nobby, but we figure they must be like some of Washpot's, er, Constable Visit's, sir. So maybe these Grave Gourmands is just a buncha new Omnians," he said. "You know they have a schism like every decade."

Vimes had finished dressing and handed Harry an axe. "We're starting to work on the fire, then let's get Visit and Dorfl to look at the pamphlets and see if it's some Omnian thing. We'll worry about the rest later. Get a general clacks out and get all available Watchman to the area."

Colon nodded and left in a hurry.

He got up. "Right you lot, there's work to do, let's get at it," and he led the group out the door.

The Watch generally gathered to begin fire relief operations, and as a result no-one had a chance to follow up on their work from earlier.

Which meant that no-one got a chance to look at the pamphlets stuck on Vimes' desk by Nobby (less one or two which wouldn't be missed and could be used as valuable latrine paper), before the Patricians' butler placed a stack of paper containing the latest tax roll on top of it, later that evening.

Which was a pity, because if someone had been able to read it, it might have provided them with a very valuable clue.

Unfortunately, as the pamphlet got buried in the endless pile of paperwork that was on Vimes' desk, it meant that no one read the story of 'Lord Voldemort and the Astounding Visionary, by Rocky Silverarm.'


	12. Burglar in the Library

**A/N PLEASE READ DISCLOSURES IN CHAPTER ONE.**

(An extended reply to Machiavelli Jr's fine points in his (?) reviews; skip down to title block if you wish to just read the fic.)

**Machiavelli Jr: **Firstly, I thank you for your kind words and well-thought criticism. As always, a more-than-generous tumbler-full of Loretto, Ky.'s finest, is headed your way. To your points regarding my foreword, Spider Robinson is a notable author – and a favorite of Lawrence Block, to whom I am doing homage in this fic – but I respectfully submit that, from the way I phrased my foreword, he does not apply.

First, I am concentrating mainly on British fiction, rather than American; and second, fantasy was not a big seller (both as a percentage of total volume sold and in terms of dollar value of sales) in the Americas in the 1970s, so Robinson remained unknown to many readers until the last few decades. Robinson's position as a fantasy titan in the 1970s, in my opinion, should be considered as secondary in consideration of the 'big three': Isaac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, and Robert A. Heinlein.

And within that consideration, I _still_ stand by my foreword. Neither Asimov nor Heinlein is British, and although Clarke is British, these three authors are far more associated with science fiction than with fantasy. Even allowing that the line is quite thin between SF and fantasy, it is notable that even for the 'big three,' the 1970s are notable for the _absence_ of major works of fantasy or science fiction.

In the period of 1969-1981, the 'big three' penned _one_ notable work: this was Clarke's _Rendezvous with Rama_, published in 1973. _2001: A Space Odyssey_ came before this period (1968), and its sequel _2010_ was not published until 1982.

Heinlein offered _The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ in 1966, following up with the much weaker _Time Enough for Love_ in 1973, and then did not release _any_ book at all until well after 1980.

Asimov's _Foundation_ and _Robot_ series were written primarily in the 1950s and their sequels were completed during the late 1980s and early 1990s. The 1970s was a period in which Asimov wrote a few short stories and a large amount of his also non-fiction science research. Asimov's only notable fiction during the 1970s was his "Black Widowers" pseudo-crime wordplay series.

In sum, the 'big three' did not produce any major fantastic literature in the 1970s. Even Ray Bradbury had a weak 1970s. The only Americans fantasists who did write well in the 1970s were Harlan Ellison and Stephen King, and their work was certainly darker, horror fiction. Although 1975's _'Salem's Lot_ must be noted for the triumphant return of the H.P. Lovecraft universe, Ellison wrote primarily for television, with few book-form stories appearing.

Were there some good fantasy and science fiction writers available in the 1970s? Certainly. However, I stand by my premise that the period of the 1970s marks a notable low point in the genre, despite fine work on the small screen – notable British TV series included _Dr Who_, _The Tomorrow People_, and _Blake's 7_. It may be noted that _Dr Who_ has been resurrected by the BBC as a serial this season.

A recent discussion in my author's circle blamed some of the problem on _Star Wars_, which was filmed in 1975-76 and released in 1977. For many years, authors had been writing of faster-than-light travel. About 20 minutes into the film, there is the famous scene of the Millennium Falcon escaping the Imperial star destroyers, with Han Solo uttering the immortal line, 'Hold tight while I make the jump to hyperspace.' No one knew what hyperspace or light speed looked like before _Star Wars_; in that second, we all did, and its influence lasts even to _Star Trek: The Next Generation_. Suddenly, authors were forced to contend with a preconceived notion of what space travel looked like. Eventually they got over it; to paraphrase Freddie Mercury, fiction had to stick around, because we missed it, after we grew tired of all this vision. (It should be remembered that the original _Star Trek_ ran for a very brief allotment on television, and had limited availability outside the United States, whereas _Star Wars_ was the original 'blockbuster,' playing to massive global audiences.)

At any rate, that was one possibility mooted. Other possibilities are equally worthy of debate. In sum, MJ, I appreciate your view, but stand by my premise that fantasy was at a significant low point in the 1970s, particularly in Britain.

Since this note is overly long, I will not get into my thoughts on relation'ship'ping here, or the whole controversy over HP/GW, HP/HG, HP/CC, etc. I find a great deal of the flame war juvenile. Strictly from the point of view of the difficulty of writing dialogue, given various scenarios, I personally believe JKR has opted for a certain 'cop out' in her canon's HP/GW ship. If there is interest in this arena (I read your reviews) I will air my inconsequential and worthless opinions on this topic later. Overall, I appreciate your kindness in overlooking the HP/HG pairing in reading my fic. Finally, I should note that the ship is clearly an inconsequential part of the plot in this fic; I could easily (perhaps should) have substituted GW. Having said that, HG rears her auburn-haired head in this chapter.

**Spaghetti O's**; ;-) stay tuned!

**THE BURGLAR IN THE LIBRARY**

Hermione Granger felt she had been very calm, confident, collected, and most of all, patient. _Too patient, really_, she thought to herself as she toyed with her green peas.

"Now, sweetie, you shouldn't sulk, I'm sure Harry is fine," Tonks said. "It'll give you lines, you know, and then he'll dump you. More wine?"

Hermione made a face. She knew Tonks and Lupin were doing their best in their own ways to support her, but that did not change how empty she felt inside.

"It's been three days," she said for the fourth time. "He should have at least called me on the mirror just to tell me that he was safe. I've tried more than a dozen times and he's never there. I … just … hurt inside. I can't even begin to describe it."

"I'm sure he's thinking about you, Hermione," Remus said. "Perhaps he's just been too busy or surrounded by muggles to be able to answer you."

"Oh, you mean he's too busy for …" _me_, she thought as her voice trailed off. It came out in a snarl and Hermione instantly felt guilty. She didn't mean to bite Lupin's head off.

"Come, Hermione, you should be more patient," Tonks said. "I know you're a very patient person, just watching you work as a doctor."

"Damn it, Tonks, I'm a practical medical spell research theorist, not a doctor!" Hermoine snapped. "And for your information, most doctors aren't patients!"

"I thought all doctors had patience," Lupin said mildly, and his soothing voice made Hermione feel worse again.

"Look, I'm sorry I'm jumping down your throats," Hermione said. "I do appreciate the dinner and the lunch the other day and how you're trying to help me cope. It's just that, well, most doctors don't have their loved ones trapped on a world in a parallax dimension and with no idea how he is or if he needs my help."

A tear squeezed out of Hermione's eye and trickled down her face. Tonks got up and walked over to her and snatched her into a hug from behind. Hermione sniffed, and Tonks made eye contact with her husband, who very silently left the room. Hermione sniffed again, and Tonks brought her into a strong hug, and held the younger woman as she cried quietly for a few minutes.

"It's just not fair that everything happens to him," Hermione sobbed finally. "I feel so helpless, and I love him so much."

Tonks quietly rubbed Hermione's shoulders. "Have you talked to McGonagall?" she said quietly.

"Umm … no, why?" Hermione asked.

"Well, she sent him there, and didn't Hogwarts take in an exchange wizard? Maybe they can give you some answers," Tonks said, soothingly.

"You're right, auntie. I ought to ask them," Hermione said. "I just didn't want to bother them with my childish requests."

"Childish? Girlfriend, if my big, furry husband was missing this long, I'd have the entire Order of the Phoenix plus the Ministry Auror staff on 24/7 alert," Tonks said. "Harry's a bit of a special case. I think we can dispense of the childish nature of your request.

"Yo Wolf-boy!" she shouted. Remus appeared in an instant. "Sweetie, would you please _please_ get in touch with McGonagall and let her know that we need to speak with that other wizard tomorrow about our nephew?" Tonks batted her eyelashes, now cerulean blue, for extra effect.

Lupin smiled. "I'll go myself," he said. "Will I be escorting you, Miss Granger?"

Hermione smiled a watery smile. "Yes, please, Uncle Remus," she said. "I guess I could floo away at lunch or after work."

"Let's plan on after work – say 5:30, okay," Remus said. "I'll have it all set up."

"Thanks. Thank you both so much," Hermione said. "I … I think I'm going to spend the night at my parent's house, okay? I haven't really even told them that Harry's gone."

"Sure, sweetie," Tonks said. "You're always welcome here, you know, if you need a place to crash, too. I can tie up the wolf and it can be just us girlies."

"I usually enjoy it when you tie me up," Remus said, wickedly.

"Ooh … ooh … ooh … too much information," Hermione said.

"Yea, righ', Hermione," Tonks said, joining her husband in a wicked grin. "Like you two young'uns haven't tried it."

Hermione blushed shades of red hitherto unknown in her countenance. "Er … yes … and on that note," she stood up. She walked over and kissed Lupin on the cheek, and then hugged Tonks a last time. "I'll be here tomorrow 5:15, okay?" she said, and apparated out before even seeing Lupin's nod.

Lupin smiled. "Poor kid, she must be out of her mind with worry. But I'm sure that Harry's fine."

"Oh yes, I agree," Tonks said. "Still, I hope you meant what you said."

"About seeing Minerva? Of course," Lupin said.

"Yes, I'm aware, but that's not quite what I meant," said Tonks, holding out a set of Auror's handcuffs with a knowing smile.

…

The following late afternoon had Hermione arrive at Grimmauld Place at 5:10, even though Lupin assured her that McGonagall would not be ready to see her until 5:30.

"Lots of things going on in prep for the school year," he said.

After a quick spot of tea, by 5:25 they were in McGonagall's office, which remained empty. "Headmistress? HEADMISTRESS!" Hermione shouted.

"Now, now, Ms. Granger, no need to shout," came the twinkling-eyed portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

"But, Headmaster, we need to see Headmistress McGonagall right away," Hermione said, breathless. "It's about Harry, we haven't gotten in touch, and I'm so worried."

"I know, Ms. Granger. However, I also know that Harry has not contacted you under orders from Samuel Vimes, his commanding officer," Dumbledore said, smoothly. "He is perfectly fine, just obeying orders."

"How do you know?" Hermione persisted.

"Ah, my dear, that I am afraid I cannot discuss with you. Suffice it to say that I am fully aware of Harry's current well-being, which is perfectly fine," Dumbledore said. The portrait's eyes twinkled merrily. "However, if you are really interested in finding out, I suggest you speak with Dobby."

"Dobby?" Hermione said, perplexed.

"And now, I'm afraid I have much business in front of me," Dumbledore said. "A pleasant evening to you, Miss Granger, and of course to you too, Remus." The image of Dumbledore strolled out of its portrait.

"What – what did that mean?" asked Hermione.

In answer, Headmistress McGonagall entered the room. "Good evening Remus, Hermione," she said.

"Good evening, Minerva," Remus said. "Would you mind so much if I took a toffee? Nymphadora doesn't permit me them, you know," he said, nicking one off her desk.

McGonagall flashed a withering glance at him, which didn't dissuade the former Marauder in the slightest.

"Now, Hermione, I understand you wish to speak with Rincewind," McGonagall said.

"Yes, please, Headmistress," Hermione said.

"Minerva, Hermione. You're no longer my student," McGonagall said.

"Please, _Minerva_, can I see Professor Rincewind?" Hermione said, feeling drained already.

"Professor Rincewind is … quite an enigma," the Headmistress said, with a slight frown. "I do not believe that he has been really seen by any of the faculty, other than Irma, and she never seems to know where he is when I ask her. Still, he has never yet been known to be late for a staff dinner, which are at 6 p.m., as I think you might remember. So if we walk down to the Great Hall, I am sure that you will find him there when meal-time comes."

The trio walked quietly to the Great Hall, with each step Hermione remembering adventures of her school daze. The return to Hogwarts after so many years was somewhat overwhelming to the former prefect and Head Girl.

At the dinner table, very few of Hogwarts' professors were gathered for the evening meal. Among them, however, were Argus Filch, Madam Irma Prince, the librarian, Professor Horace Slughorn, and Sibyll Trelawney. At the stroke of six, Rincewind came scrambling into the room, and suddenly dishes appeared in front of each of the diners, including Hermione and Remus.

"Welcome to our old friends, and may our dishes improve our appetites," McGonagall said.

The meal began in pleasant earnest. Hermione noted that Rincewind's plate was notable for its congregation of complex carbohydrates.

"Professor Rincewind?" she began timidly.

"Rincewind," he said quietly.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione asked.

"Just Rincewind. No professor," he said. "What can I do for you, Miss Granger?"

"Rincewind, I have not been able to get in touch with Harry," she said. "I am so worried about him. Is there anything you know," she said hesitantly.

"Hex?" asked Rincewind quietly.

"Yes?" came a disembodied voice, somewhere in the region of Rincewind's pocket.

"What is the present location of Harry Potter?" Rincewind asked.

"Somewhere in Ankh-Morpork," came the voice. "His thaumic signature has surged twice with his use of spells. They have spiked at extreme levels of magic. As best I can tell, Mr. Potter is currently asleep, which would follow as the Watch has been busy at present in putting out a fire in the city centre."

"Anything important?" Rincewind asked before Hermione could get in a question.

"The Temple of Hyperopia has been attacked," said Hex. "It was not completely destroyed, as I have detected clacks questions which will likely appear in the _Times_ tomorrow. The Watch extinguished the fire in the early hours of this morning."

"Can I speak to Harry?" Hermione jumped in.

"As I said, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter is currently asleep at another location in the city. I do not have a means of rousing him," Hex's voice came. "However, he is overdue to return to the Unseen University, and obtain a device which Professor Stibbons has designed, which could potentially facilitate trans-dimensional communication."

"Hex, send a clacks to Pseudopolis Yard, delivery tomorrow in time for the morning meeting, that Mr. Potter is asked to report to Unseen University's High Energy Magic building," Rincewind said.

"Does he still have my mirror?" Hermione asked.

"Please detail mirror possession," the voice continued.

"Before Harry left, he had a mirror – I have the pair – that would allow us to communicate. Does he still have it?" Hermione asked.

There was a surprisingly long pause, which permitted most of the staff to finish their entrees and proceed to the desert.

"I have not detected any use of these mirrors, which would certainly leave a thaumic trace," Hex finally replied. "I have no idea why Mr. Potter has not used his mirror. However, it is unnecessary. Professor Stibbons' alternative device should prove functional for communication."

Rincewind had finished his meal, well before the rest of the staff. Hermione's plate was still almost full. With a smile to the rest of the staff, he got up. "So nice to see you again, Miss Granger, been too long and all that, now I must get back to my work, see you soon, I hope," and before she could stop him, Rincewind had made it to the door.

She quickly followed, but by the time she got to the hall, Rincewind had vanished.

"How the heck did he-" she began. _Maybe he had an invisibility cloak … or maybe he went in a room quite close_, she thought.

"He can't be so far away …" she stood outside for a moment perplexed. Finally, she was joined by Remus.

"Did you find out everything you needed to know?" he asked, startling her.

"No, actually. But he's vanished … somewhere in the castle, and I don't even have Harry's – I mean your – old map to find him," Hermione said.

"Maybe there's another way?" Remus suggested.

"How so?" asked Hermione.

"Dumbledore suggested asking Dobby," Remus said.

"That's it! Uncle Remus, you're a genius," Hermione's eyes positively glistened. "_Dobby_," she whispered furtively.

The house-elf appeared with his usual _pop_.

"Yes Miss Granger Miss," Dobby said.

"Dobby, I am looking for Professor Rincewind, who was helping me get in touch with Harry," Hermione said. "Do you know where he is?"

To their surprise, the house-elf looked very nervous for a moment. "Dobby said he wouldn't … but the missus asked for Harry Potter … and Harry Potter said it was okay … so it must be okay," Dobby said, finally.

"The professor is in the library, behind the muggle studies section, there is an old reading room," Dobby said. "It looks empty, but Dobby made it nice and comfy and the Professor will be there."

"Thank you, Dobby," Hermione said, and strode a familiar path to the Hogwarts library. Through the doors of the main library, now eerily quiet without students, a rush of memories came flooding back to her. She quickly passed through Spell Research, Potions, Magical Creatures, and arrived at Muggle Studies. She brushed past a stack and then … Transfiguration? She walked back and was at Magical Creatures again.

She turned back to Muggle Studies, determined to find the doorway, and physically ran into Remus. "Oof!" she said.

"It's here," he said quietly. "A variant on the Confundus charm, used as a glamour. Very clever. We used it once to bewitch McGonagall's door so she couldn't find her own classroom."

"Remus!" said Hermione, shocked. The Marauder shrugged. She now looked carefully and saw that the doorway looked old, abandoned, and almost forced the eye to ignore it.

"Turn your head to the side," Remus said, "and look at it out of the corner of your eye."

Now she could see the outline of the door clearly. She pulled at the doorknob and the door swung open, gaining a glimpse of Rincewind diving behind a comfortable sofa. Hermione withdrew her wand and with a quick flick had the sofa hovering in the air.

"I was not through with you," she said sternly to the wizard. "Now sit down!"

"How? The sofa's in the air," Rincewind said.

Hermione set it down gently, and Rincewind complied. Hermione looked at a coffee table in front of the sofa, covered with books, and a few notebooks with Rincewind's scribble.

"Burgling from the Hogwarts library, then?" she asked.

"Hardly. Just … researching," Rincewind said. "I am an assistant librarian at Unseen University as well."

"As well as a lot of things," she said. "Who was that we were talking to at the dinner table?"

"That's Hex," Rincewind said. "I guess you would say he is kind of a computer."

"And he can communicate with you?" Hermione said.

"I can utilize anything which would be understood as a communication device as a transmission locus," came the voice again. Hermione now saw that it came from a small crystal ball that sat on the coffee table.

"And I can use this to speak with Harry?" she demanded.

"More accurately, I can permit Mr. Potter to use a communication relay to contact you," Hex said. "I do not believe I can create a flux flow in order to permit the contact to commence from your side."

"Right. I've got a mobile. That's a communication device," Hermione said. "I assume I can have you get Harry to call me in some way?"

The voice was silent for a moment again. "Please hold your … mobile … to the sphere," Hex said.

Hermione pulled her phone out of her purse and put it next to the sphere, and both briefly glowed blue. "I can't use the phone at Hogwarts, since the magic interferes with it, but I can use it in London," she said.

"This is a fascinating device," Hex said. "I notice there are numbers on it. What do they do?"

"I can input a number, and a signal goes from my phone and attempts to reach the phone that has that number," Hermione said. "If the other phone can be contacted, then I can speak to the person who is using the other phone."

There was again some silence. "I have made a modification on this end," Hex said. "If Mr. Potter can get to the High Energy Magic building, he will be able to contact you on your mobile."

That pacified Hermione. She picked up her mobile and turned to Rincewind. "You'd better make sure he gets my message," she said. "Now, is there anything else I should do, or just leave you here?"

Rincewind said nothing for a moment. "If you speak to Harry, you can tell him I still don't understand the spiking feature of the magic that's being thrown off," he said glumly. "The thaumic reaction doesn't make much sense right now. Stibbons and the Librarian are working on it on their end, but I can't reproduce the same patterns here on Roundworld, at least not in the same thaumic spectrum.

"He needs to talk with Stibbons about it. If I can repeat it the same fluctuation, we'll know something."

"What exactly will we know?" Hermione asked.

"That I can repeat it," Rincewind said, moodily.

"Hmph. Is there anything I can do to help?" Hermione asked.

Rincewind stared into space. "Hex?"

"Yes?" said the computer.

"Can I also contact Miss Granger through her mobile, if I use the crystal sphere?" he asked.

A few interdimensional switches later, and the crystal sphere had a few runes glowing on it. One read 'Hermione Granger' and the other read 'Harry Potter' with yet another reading 'Hex.'

"Try pressing the name first, and if we can make contact, you should be speaking with the correct indiviual," Hex said. "By necessity, I, of course, will be carrying all of the conversations through the High Energy Magic building, so I will be able to monitor your communication."

Rincewind pressed the 'Hermione' button. Hermione's phone began to ring.

"But … but it's never worked in Hogwarts before," she gasped, looking at her phone. The readout showed 'HECKS' as the caller. Hermione pressed the call button and was speaking with Rincewind in stereo.

"You can hear me?" was repeated by witch and sphere.

"It seems it works on magic," Rincewind repeated in person and through the earpiece.

Hermione closed the phone. "Okay. Thank you for your help," she said. "If I can be of assistance, don't hesitate to call me."

She and Remus walked out of Rincewind's door without even a goodbye – somehow Hermione felt this was the right thing to do – and back towards McGonagall's office and its floo connection.

"Let's not tell the faculty about Professor Rincewind's office," Remus said.

"You don't think they already know?" Hermione asked.

"I strongly doubt it," Remus said. "It's more likely that he's sequestered himself for a reason, probably one that Harry knows. There are ways to become invisible in Hogwarts if you really need to be. It maybe that we need him to be."

…

The smell of smoke lingered even after the long shower at the Watch House. Harry found it merely irritating, but when he woke around mid-day, he found Carrot still asleep and a note form Angua saying she was going out to run out the oxygen in her lungs.

_Wish I felt that strong_, Harry thought.

He dressed and went down to the Watch House, not bothering to wake Captain Carrot. _He's had a tough couple of days_, thought Harry. _If Angua gets back and they're alone, well, that's fine_.

Although it was long past noon, Harry wandered into the staff room where Sgt. Colon and other Watch regulars were playing a card game that Harry had learned was called 'Cripple Mr. Onion.' He was debating in his own mind whether to teach the Watch Exploding Snap, but given the limitations on his magic, had decided not to.

"Constable, I think there was a clacks for you," Colon said gruffly. "Should be in your pigeonhole."

"Umm … my what?" asked Harry.

"Your pigeonhole," Colon said. "I know you were issued a Watch homing pigeon."

"Yes sir, I was," Harry said. "But I'm not sure where it is, now."

"It'll be in your pigeon hole, of course," Colon said. He pointed a grimy finger toward the back of the squad room. "Back thataway."

Harry trudged to the back, the odor of fresh pigeon droppings rising in his nose with each step. Turning a corner, he saw a series of neat cage openings, with scores of pigeons cooing in each. He looked until he found one marked 'PUTER' and decided it was probably his, the other names not coming nearly close enough. Moving the pigeon – and its output – to one side, he found a folded paper.

To: Harry Potter, Constable, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Pseudopolis Yard  
From: Ponder Stibbons, Director of Inadvisably Applied Magic, Unseen University  
Mr. Potter, please report at once to the High Energy Magic building with regards to our conversation of three days ago.

"Mph," said Harry. _Now what? I guess I should inform my commanding officer._ He strode to Sam Vimes' office, but found a sign saying 'THE ACTING COMMANDER IS CURRENTLY' and a scrawled note that said _Sgt. Colon_.

He returned to the squad room.

"Sergeant Colon," Harry said hesitantly.

Colon didn't even look up from his roster. "Yes, Constable Potter?"

"I need to see a contact at Unseen University, so I was hoping to get permission to go over there," he said.

Colon flipped a few pages. "Says here you, Detritus and Littlebottom are to check out the Fat Warehouse. I haven't seen her yet, she'll probably be in a bit late cause of the fire."

"Well, perhaps I can go over there and come back and we can then go to the warehouse," Harry said.

Colon glared at him. "You don't do anythin' in this city without a partner, lad. Who's your partner?"

"I'm not really sure. I'm staying with Captain Carrot, but I was working with Corporal Littlebottom yesterday," Harry said.

Colon wiped his brow. "Potter, you always need to have a partner. At all times. Got it?"

"Yes sir," Harry said. _Wonder how I'm going to manage this,_ he thought.

"Detritus is in the firing range. The two of you can go together to Unseen University, and then you get back here and meet up with Littlebottom," Colon said. "The firing range is outside the Watch building, to the left, and into the yard marked 'Donut Entry.'"

"Donut Entry?" Harry asked.

"It used ter say 'Do Not Enter' but the last time Detritus used the crossbow, he broke the old sign," Colon explained. "Get on, now. I got a lot to do till Commander Vimes gets in."

_Oooh, this sounds bad,_ Harry thought, but he walked till he found the sign as marked, and saw a group of dwarfs, men and troll aiming various weapons at a set of targets some 30 or so yards away.

Detritus had a siege weapon about the size of Harry in his hands, and was shooting a single bolt through the back of a manikin. It pinned the dummy through the center and embedded it into the wall.

"Hah! Six for six! You owe me three rats, Sef," came a happy voice.

"Darned trolls," growled the dwarf.

"Hello, Potter," said Nobby. "Care for a shot?"

"Not just now," Harry said. "I was coming to ask Sgt. Detritus if he could join me in a patrol over to Unseen University to interview a source."

"Defintly can do dat," Detritus said, setting down the crossbow and picking up a truncheon the size of a small tree. "You got an arm?"

"Two of them," Harry said.

"No, u got your stick?" Detritus asked.

"Oh, my nightstick," Harry said. He held it up. "Right here."

"Les' go den," Detritus said.

Man and rock down the muddy streets towards the university. "Who we gon' see?" Detritus said.

"Ponder Stibbons, in the High Energy Magic building," Harry replied.

Arriving at the university gates, Harry was surprised they did not swing open. "How do people get in?" he asked.

"Der don't, mosly," Detritus said. He swung his truncheon at the gates, making a loud _clang_. "Dat'll get Modo coming."

Moments later, an irate-looking dwarf arrived. "_Do_ you mind? I just repainted that … oh, it's you sergeant," his tone becoming more civil. "What do you want?"

"Der Watch got business wit Mr. Stibbons, Mr. Modo," the troll answered. Modo motioned with his hand and the gates swung open. "He'll be in the HEM building," the dwarf said, wandering away. "To your left."

The High Energy Magic building was clearly the one with the most shielding, and Harry and Detritus entered cautiously. _He'd be with Hex … where is that? _thought Harry. He noticed someone walking by in robes. _Bound to be a student. Let's see if they all answer to the voice of authority._

"Hey you," Harry barked as fiercely as he could.

"Er, me sir?" said the wide-eyed undergraduate.

"Yeah, you," Harry said. "We're the Watch. Where is Professor Stibbons?"

"Down the stairs, corridor on your right, the main laboratory," squeaked the student.

Without a word, Harry and Detritus passed him and began walking down the stairs.

_I wonder if that's how I looked my first year at Hogwarts_, Harry thought. They came to a door marked 'HEX and EXPERIMENTAL MAGIC DEPARTMENT.'

Harry raised his hand to knock on the door, then decided against it, and pushed it open.

Ponder sat with his back to them, studying a massive chart that extended 30 feet across, and stood nearly half the height of the room. Three or four students were rushing around, color-coding various parts of the chart.

"So this is again the thaumic spike," Stibbons was saying. "I want to see …" hearing the door swing open, he turned. "Ah, Mr. Potter, glad to see you. Sgt. Detritus, good, good, come in."

Stibbons pointed to a yellow flare on the wall. "This is you, Mr. Potter. Two spikes. One about 45 minutes after you arrived, another about eight hours later. I assume you understand that?"

Harry remembered his spell use and shuddered. "That seems right," he said.

"Yes, we've captured and cross-referenced your thaumic signature. We knew these were yours," Stibbons said. "Here are some other ones – the first a few months ago, then a few weeks ago, and a few yesterday. We don't have a signature for these. No idea who's doing it, but it's some pretty intense magic, mixed with belief. Don't suppose you've got any information on that?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked at Potter.

_Think like a Watchman_, Harry thought. "We are making our inquiries, of course," Harry said. "What else was it you wished to tell us?"

Stibbons sighed. He went to his workbench and returned with a small object, slightly larger than Harry's palm. "Here. I used your blood, an Imp, Hex's remote magic attraction facility, and the crystal sphere to create a device I call a Potter Discworld Adjustator. It can be used through Hex's Extradimensional Mailing Facility to send and receive communication between you, Hex, and Roundworld."

"You mean it's a PDA with an e-mail facility?" Harry asked.

"Well, I suppose," Stibbons said. "But your way makes it sound so _common_. You can navigate with it using your open hand. You can ask it to communicate with Hex, Rincewind, or Hermione Granger."

Harry took the PDA and flipped the top open, which made the imp blow a raspberry.

"Well, whadya want?" it asked.

"Hermione Granger," Harry said.

After a few minutes, Harry heard a noise like an old-fashioned telephone ringing. "Mmm … yeah … hello?" came a groggy voice.

"Hermione?" Harry asked.

"Harry!" he heard her say. "It's … it's two thirty in the morning!"

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't know the time difference. I can call back …"

"NO! Why haven't you called me! I've tried on the mirror more times than I can count! Are you all right? Are they treating you okay? What's it like?" she said, rapidly becoming awake.

"'Mione, I'm sorry I haven't called you earlier, I was expressly forbidden from using Earth magic," he said. "I've just gotten a PDA that I can contact you with, but this isn't a good time, I'm afraid. I just wanted to see if it would work. I promise I'll call you back in about six hours, when you're awake, and I'm not on patrol," he said.

"Oh … okay …" she said. Harry could hear the disappointment in her voice. "I love you," she said.

"Me too," Harry said. He closed the PDA.

"Right," he said to Stibbons, putting the PDA in his Watch uniform pocket. "Thanks for that. We'll be in touch."

Without another word, he and Detritus left the university.

"Dat go okay?" the troll finally asked him when they were back on the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

"Better than okay," Harry said. "That's the best thing that's happened since I've gotten here."

"Dat's good," Detritus said. "Cuz when we get Littlebottom, we're gonna go over to der Fat Warehouse, and I 'spect we're gerna prod some buttock. And dat's gonna be der best thing that's happened fer me in a week."


	13. T E N

**A/N PLEASE SEE DISCLAIMERS IN CHAPTER ONE**.

Well, I hope everyone has had a nice hurricane … for those who haven't been paying attention to the news recently, my hometown of New Orleans has been largely devastated by Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. I pray to whatever god you care to believe in that Wilma will pose no major damage or loss of life to people.

As the recovery continues, I wish to thank all those who have come in to our state from outside to assist us.

I am still living in southeastern Louisiana. Like so many others, it has been very difficult to watch my home get destroyed. For weeks, I've been so numb that I've been beyond writing, but I am trying to take Harry's advice to Fred and George at the end of _GOF_; we all need something to laugh about right now. So for those who wish to keep going (I sure do) here's a nice, long, juicy new chapter for ya.

And no, the chapter title isn't a Lawrence Block title. I was writing dialogue and all of a sudden it hit me. You'll figure it out.

**T E N … **

Harry was sitting down in the seedy pub, slowly and quite contentedly finishing his pint. The beer may have been swill, true, but it was beer, nonetheless. Harry felt a great deal of satisfaction that the raid had gone splendidly and they had made real progress. Angua and Littlebottom were occasionally finishing drinks of their own, and occasionally poking around for an Igor they were going to interrogate later, and occasionally waiting for someone named Susan to show up. He was fine to let them deal with that; Harry wanted to replay once more in his mind the successful events of the day.

…

"Right, Potter, so you do understand _now_ how this raid will work?" Corporal Littlebottom repeated exasperatedly for the fourth time. Harry felt like he understood from the first, but considering what happened his last Auror raid, he thought it was prudent to make sure that they were all on the same page.

Littlebottom and Detritus were to go inside first; Harry was to poke around out the back, with a dwarf officer named Dunkerbrang. As Littlebottom and Detritus called a 'surprise inspection,' Harry and Dunkerbrang would be looking for who was running to where to hide what; they were the front line of the investigative forces. Harry wished he had his invisibility cloak, but then, he felt learning standard Auror – er, Watch – practices was an important part of his training.

Harry and Dunkerbrang would then hopefully catch those covering up whatever was wrong fat handed, and they would be able to interrogate them to find out who was stealing high-grade fat. Harry attempted to dunk his donut in the coffee again. Lard knew, it wasn't the biscuit-makers.

…

Harry and 'Dunk' as he wanted to be called quietly stole into the back of the Fat Warehouse. Detritus and Littlebottom were going to give them a few minutes to find a position before they would enter 'very loudly and prodding buttock.'

"Gods, the smell …" said Harry.

"Yep, really takes me back," Dunk said.

"Back where?" asked Harry.

"I'm from Uberwald, as are a lot of the dwarfs. I used to work in the fat mines. I loved the smell of fat in the morning … smells like … success," Dunkerbrang said.

"Right," said Harry. He was looking into the offal storage pits. Nothing too unusual that he could discern. Each pit had an iron bucket, that swiveled over it, containing flaming pitch. This was used for burning off contaminated fat. "Let's get a bit closer to the doors over there, so we can see anyone moving," Harry said. "We'll crouch down under that storage vat."

The dwarf nodded and the two moved. A few minutes later, they could hear loud shouting and the sounds of running feet. _That must be Detritus prodding buttock,_ Harry thought.

There was a quiet period, and then the sound of stealthy footsteps. A door opened, and a short thin man creeped into the offal storage. He quickly ran to the far end of the room, and pulled something under his vest and tossed it into the pit. He moved over to the pitch bucket.

"We'll never stop him in time," Harry said, as they dashed towards him. "Unless …"

"What?" said Dunkerbrang.

"Sorry about this," Harry said, and reached down and tossed the dwarf.

Dunkerbrang sailed through the air, arching his last few feet so that his metal helmet collided perfectly with the thin man's legs.

"Arrgh!"

The thin man was down, writing in pain, and Dunkerbrang stood over him with the steely (and toothy) glint of a dwarf that's just found a particularly troublesome rat.

"Well, well, what's this then?" Dunkerbrang asked.

Harry finally caught up and climbed the scaffolding to look into the offal pit. The man had thrown in a large notebook.

Harry gingerly climbed down into the pit, and picked it out. As he brushed off the debris, he noticed it was … hairy. He looked carefully into the pit, and steeled his stomach.

It was undeniably a horse's tail.

"Looks like a real mare's nest here," Harry said. "This, I presume, is where the missing horses have gotten to."

"You've … you've got nothin' on me," the thin man said.

"Oh is that so?" Dunkerbrang said. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Avoir," said Mr. Avoir. "I'm the bookskeeper."

"Well, Mr. Bookskeeper, maybe you can explain the entries here, and why there are so many horse carcasses in that offal pit?" Harry said, brushing the fat off his robes. He wouldn't be eating steak again anytime soon.

"I … I …" Mr. Avoir suddenly didn't seem too interested in talking.

"Let's go bring him to meet Sgt. Detritus and Littlebottom," Harry said. "I think it might be a good idea for them to prod another buttock." He had brought the horse tail with him.

As the passed through, the workmen were endeavoring to explain to an impatient Cherie that they were just doing their jobs. The statements they were making were probably helped by the fact that Detritus was occasionally poking them in the chest with a sledgehammer-sized fist, making comments like, "I know it was you what did it, wasn't it?"

"Ah, Harry, Dunk," Littlebottom said, bored. "Seems you've found someone who had something to hide. What've you got there?"

"He was attempting to destroy the books," Harry said. "In an offal pit filled with horses."

"Is that so?" Cherie said. "Well, lads, looks like you're all for the Patricians' scorpion pit."

At this a chorus of denials broke out.

"It was all Avoir!"

"He was gettin' paid by the Igors!"

"We didn't want to do it! He threatened to have the Grave Gourmands burn our homes!"

"SHUDDUP!"

Detritus' roar silenced the suddenly timid mob.

"Right, Detritus, you stay here and guard the premises. We're taking them back to the yard for further inquiries," Littlebottom said.

They had removed the workmen (four of whom were discharged after making statements) and left Mr. Avoir in the cells, with several copies of the books for Vimes to go through.

Harry had assisted in the interview process and writing up the paperwork, until Angua and Littlebottom arrived in the early evening.

"Nice work today, Potter," Angua said. "We're off to beer."

"Oh, a drink would be great," Harry said.

Angua looked at him quizzically. "I guess we can get one," she said. "We're going to get the Igor, remember?"

"Right," Harry said, puzzled. "I thought you see we were going for…"

"Susan knows where Igor is. She'll be at Biers," Angua said. "B-I-E-R-S. Biers."

"Oh, I see," Harry said. "I was under the impression we were going to a place to get beers."

"We're not," Angua said.

"So what is Biers, anyway?" asked Harry.

"A pub," Littlebottom said.

…

"I'll have one," Harry said.

"One what?" asked the bartender. Harry saw he was an Igor by the third ear he was sporting, and then by the fact that his face resembled a topographic map of Scotland.

"This pub is called Biers, by the sign," Harry said. "I'll have one. A beer."

The barman, who was an Igor who seemed to share Igor's same speech impediment, looked at Harry closely for a minute, and then at Angua. "He's with me. We're waiting to see Susan," she said.

The Igor shrugged and passed out a round of beers to the Watch. That had been six beers ago.

"Any idea how much fat they stole?" Harry asked Littlebottom. He had mainly been taking the interviews.

"Well, I went back and checked the pit, and also the entries in the log books. I reckon about nine thousand pounds," Littlebottom said.

"Nine thousand pounds!" Harry said. "How could they hide it all? I mean, racehorses are big, but they're not that fat."

"Yeah, that's what you might think," Angua said. "You've clearly never been out to the track here."

"What would they do with all of it?" Harry asked. "I mean, wouldn't someone notice that much fat going missing?"

"Not if it was going to an Igor," Littlebottom said. "They're always carting fat to and from their workshops. An Igor with a cartload of fat 's pretty common sight in Ankh-Morpork. Probably they started with a few hundred pounds here, few hundred pounds there, and then topped up more recently."

"So you could replace the arms and legs of a gigantic army," Harry said. "Maybe they've got an army already and before going into battle, this way they could grow a whole series of limbs and stuff before a battle, and after the battle, they'd have a lot of arms just at hand, and be able to replace on foot."

"Mmm … I doubt it," Angua said. "An army that would need that much replacement wouldn't be easy to hide. It would have a camp, require provisions, supplies … you can't exactly hide something that big. Besides, even if you had a pre-grown appendage, the surgery would still have an absolute minimum recovery time of about a month. A campaign might last six months, true, and you'd accelerate your troop replacement time, but if you are really counting on these troops coming back to you in order to stay successful, you're army's not that big. I mean the Agatean Empire can put more than 50,000 men under arms in a month. No one else has a regiment that large, not Klatch, not Fourecks. And they wouldn't go about requiring fat deposits beforehand."

As Harry was digesting this, Susan Sto-Helit arrived. She noticed the Watch sitting prominently at the bar and immediately moved to join them.

"Harry, this is Susan Sto-Helit," Angua made the introductions. "Susan's an old friend. Harry's a Watchman, temporarily on loan from Lon-."

"Pleased to meet you," said Harry, offering his hand. Susan took it. As he took Susan's hand, Harry was aware of the sensation of touching a block of ice, and stared into the vacuum of her eyes, which bored deeply into his soul. He flinched backwards reflexively.

"I suggest you find a better name for it than Lon-," she said quietly. "Igor, I'll have a glass of white wine, please."

A glass appeared in front of her so quickly that Harry wasn't sure how it got there. He was looking at Susan and felt sweat on the back of his neck. _Who is this person?_ He thought. _Kid gloves treatment, right now_.

"Susan, Harry's helping us out with an investigation," Littlebottom said. "We've been investigating the Fat Warehouse today. It seems … a good bit of extremely high-quality fat has been … misplaced. We have reason to believe Igor knows something about it."

"Ah," said Susan non-committally, staring straight ahead. Her eyes went glassy for a moment and she took a deep sip of her wine. "I'm pretty certain you'll find him in Ye Olde slop shop right now, less than 200 yards from here, on your left as you go out the door. He's probably pretty drunk."

Littlebottom and Angua left immediately.

Susan had finished her drink in two swigs and motioned to Igor for another. It appeared again, in a spotlessly clean glass, a rarity at Biers.

Harry still wasn't exactly sure what to make of Susan. _Okay, it's safe enough to start with small talk, I guess._ "You've had a tough day," he said.

"Really. How did you tell?" Susan said.

"I know the body language. No talking to anyone, quick consumption of alcohol, staring straight ahead. You look like my girlfriend when she's had a bad shift," Harry said.

"Yeah?" Susan said, flashing a smile at him. "Yeah, I have. These doggone Grave Gourmands … they're driving me batty."

At the mention of the Grave Gourmands, Harry's senses instantly became alert. "Really? How is that, exactly?" Harry said, careful not to let too much interest into his voice.

"Well, I'm a school teacher, you see. The gangs the kids get involved in these days … I wouldn't mind it so much if it were a simple speciesist thing. Anyway, Jeremy spoke in class today."

"Jeremy?" asked Harry.

"My boyfriend, Jeremy Clockson," Susan said. "At any rate, we were discussing the concept of temporal reality. My boyfriend is somewhat of a … specialist when it comes to time. So I asked him to talk about the topic."

"And what happened?" asked Harry.

"As I said, Jeremy spoke in class today. And, well, clearly I remember calling on the boy," Susan said. "Seemed a harmless little way of getting the class to pay attention. Oh, but when I pulled away the Grave Gourmand pamphlet he was reading, did we unleash a banshee. I had to send him home, eventually."

"So they're marketing them down to children now," Harry said.

"Apparently, the pamphlets seem to be crafted as children's stories, but I find a lot of adults reading the things, too," Susan said. "I've seen a few people getting the tattoos and everything. I don't really know what they seem to want. I'm beginning to wonder if the attacks on the temples are just a cover for-"

"A cover for what?" Harry asked, but he didn't get an answer, as Susan had noticed that Angua and Littlebottom had returned with a clearly very drunk Igor.

The Igor noticed Susan eyeing him coldly. He shrugged and the other Igor arrived, seemingly unbidden, with a large cup of Klatchian coffee.

"Drink it slow," Igor said. "And you won't get _knurd_."

The Igor took a sip. People who aren't used to drinking high-octane caffeine can't handle something on the nature of Klatchian coffee, and for Harry, just the _smell_ alone was enough. It seemed to work. Igor straightened his back a bit and made a quick chiropractic adjustment.

"Though what'h thith, then?" said Igor moodily.

Susan continued to look at him disdainfully. "When you left my service, you informed me you were going to be working on an area of research quite important to the Igor."

She left it there, dangling, like a participle out on loan. It felt … _dangerous_.

"Yeth?" said Igor.

"So I'm not particularly pleased that the Watch has … politely … asked me to locate you," Susan said. "You understand what that means."

The type of silence that drifted over Biers was the one that usually followed the phrase 'so, do you feel lucky?'

Igor considered this carefully. "What do you want to know?" he said finally.

"We already know that you've been stealing fat," Harry forwarded boldly. "What is this, some kind of necromancy?'

"Necromanthy?" the Igor scoffed. "Nah, tha'th not that hard, really. Find a good dead body, raith it up, get it to do your prophecy for you. I mean, they tell you thingth, when they're dead," Igor spat coffee. "No need for fat. Tho, you learn thtuff. Most necromantherth just want to raise the dead to ask them thtuff."

Harry was quickly back on the attack. "So you are trying to equip an army of Inferi?"

"Huh?"

"An army of reanimated corpses that you can replaces appendages on so that they continue to fight," Harry explained. "You are working for someone who intends to use the newly dead as battle troops."

"Why bother?" the Igor said, looking at him sharply. "You want ghoulth or animated thkeletonth, that'th dead easy. Eathier than necromancy, even. No need for fat at all."

Harry sat, wide-eyed. _What the hell? Then why do they need all that fat?_

"Right, we're a bunch of silly buggers," Harry said. "What the hell do you need all that fat for, then?"

The Igor chuckled. "Thith ith new, thith ith. Totally a new idea." The Igor sipped – sorry, thipped – his coffee. "Thith a _rethurrecthion_," the Igor said. He leaned forward to whithper. "Ith-"

And then the world turned upside down.

The Igor's mouth continued to move, but no sound came out. A crossbow bolt flew threw the open window, entered through the back of his brain, and the point darted out Igor's forehead. His body collapsed over the bar.

Littlebottom caught the Igor as he fell, and went about immediately determining if she could resuscitate him. Meanwhile, Angua dropped her breastplate, and dashed out the front door.

Harry moved to go after her, and Susan grabbed and held him.

"Not yet," she said.

A howl came from outside.

"Now go," Susan said.

Although he wondered why she had stopped him, Harry didn't need to be told twice. He dashed after Angua, and caught sight of movement down the road. As he ran towards it, all Harry remembered hearing later was '_fwoom_.' And seeing a light that could have subordinated the sun.

There was a horrid, acrid smell in the air … and he staggered forward, dazed and blinking. There was Angua, half-naked, lying on the street, whimpering. Blood poured from her nose and mouth. Her face was speckled with small grains of shining metal.

"Uh … uh …" she moaned. "Oh gods …"

Harry carefully made his way to her. The smell and the ringing in his ears was still painful, but he got to Angua.

"Are you okay?" he asked. _Stupid question. I've got to get her out of here, so long as she doesn't have a broken vertebra._ "Can you I move you? Do you feel pain in your back or legs?"

"Mm … uh … okay," Angua said.

Harry gingerly picked her up. She weighed much less than he had thought. He carried her back into Biers, and laid her on a table. "It'll be okay, Angua," he said. _I hope._

"Oh dear gods," Cherie said, coming over to look at Angua. "Igor's gone. There's nothing we can do for him, but Angua …"

"IGOR!" she shouted. The barman appeared immediately. "I want two pitchers of clean water, now," she said.

They appeared in front of her as if by magic. "Harry, keep flushing out her mouth and her nose," Cherie said. "I'm going to get Carrot."

Harry took the pitcher and carefully moistened a relatively clean cloth, and began to wash Angua's face. As he did, she began to cry. "Sorry, I'm sorry," she said. "I've should've waited."

"Susan kept me back," Harry said, continuing to wash her face. "She's not here now."

"Mmm ... " Angua said. "She was trying to be nice."

"Oh …" she moaned a bit. The bleeding seemed to be stopping, but her entire face was swelling up. "Thanks. Really. Thank you."

"No problem," Harry said. "Part of the job."

"Not just that … for giving Carrot and I some private time," she managed. "We haven't been together in weeks. I'm worried he doesn't find me attractive any more. I really needed him."

Harry looked down at Angua's mane of hair, and her undeniably attractive body, made more revealing given the torn condition of her clothing.

"How could he not find you attractive?" Harry said.

"He sees how I look first thing in the … you know … evening?" she tried.

"Uh, yeah," said Harry.

"Well, I know I'm no prize early on, but I'm sure it all work out," Angua said.

As he continued to work on cleaning her up, the room seemed … dimmer a bit. Harry glanced up and noticed that the shadows had crept in around Angua and himself. There was a … drawing of a throat somewhere in the back of the room, as if someone was hissing. "Did he … hurt Angua?" he somehow felt, rather than heard.

"Uh oh," she muttered.

"What's with these people?" asked Harry, as his fingers closed around his truncheon.

"They … think you're normal," Angua managed. "I'm not strong enough right now to be able to …" her voice trailed off and she fell into a coughing fit.

Suddenly, the door opened.

"Where is Angua?" came a strident voice. The denizens of the bar hesitated, and then shot back to their seats in Olympic standard time.

One unwritten rule that most Ankh-Morpork residents were _very_ aware of was that you didn't get between Captain Carrot and his girlfriend. At least, not for more than a few seconds. Everyone knew that Captain Carrot was too nice and kind to actually hurt anyone but … perhaps, just for the sake of longevity, it would be as well _not_ to test the theory. Even the undead can be very attached to their unlife. And even if a vampire could be resurrected just with a drop of blood … perhaps it wasn't worth experimenting to find out if Captain Carrot really _did_ know some things that could put you in a grave. Involuntarily, that is.

"Captain? She's here," Harry said.

Carrot rushed over. "What was it, Angua?" he asked, holding her hand.

"Some kind of bomb. Aniseed and silver nitrate," she gasped.

A look crossed Carrot's face. Harry knew that look. It was a look that he had on his own face when, just before he had killed Tom Riddle, he had received word that Hermione had been subject of a Death Eater attack.

_Someone, somewhere, is going to be _very_ sorry about this,_ Harry thought.

"I know what aniseed is, but why make a bomb of it? And the silver nitrate …" his voice trailed off.

"Angua is a werewolf," Carrot said calmly, looking into Harry's eyes, daring him to say anything.

"She is?" Harry said, suddenly concerned. _Silver could kill her, and the aniseed … must burn her olfactory glands_, he thought. _Good thing the boys back home never thought of that. On the other hand, the next time I face one of Greyback's minions, this might be useful information_ …

"Is this going to be a problem?" Carrot said, in a clipped voice.

"Well, I can try to make a wolfsbane potion for her," Harry said. "I think that would help a bit. I usually try to make it for my uncle, just before the full moon. He and my aunt pretty much have it under control."

Angua and Carrot looked at each other, and then at Harry.

"Your uncle is a werewolf?" they said in chorus.

"He's … he's just got a … furry little problem," Harry said, defensively.

Angua smiled, really smiled at that. "Well, I don't think it's a problem … but furry little something, I think I can use that."

"Yes, it's something a little furry," said Carrot happily, smiling at Harry. Angua cringed and looked daggers at Carrot, but the officer was oblivious.

"Here we are all worried about you fitting in, and it turns out you're practically a dwarf and live with werewolves yourself! Really, Harry, you're just one of the Watch," Carrot said happily.

He turned to the patrons of Biers for a moment. "We'll be investigating the circumstances of Igor's death," he said. "Since I'm pretty well aware none of you would use a bow, I'll give you one minute to get out so that the Watch can go over the area. After that, anyone who remains will be detained for questioning."

There was a brief of interlude of, oh, four seconds. And the room cleared. In a _hurry_.

The door swung back open, and Cherie, Detritus, Sgt. Colon and Nobby came in.

"Ah, pretty bad," Colon said happily. Nobby went straight to the Igor and examined the bolt carefully. "A 17-inch expansion bolt with six vanes, half-moon nock, modified composite point with razor bludgeoning. I think it was featured in Stronginthearms' winter catalog, but I find that it's not so good in extremely windy conditions." He looked up. "You didn't hear anything? No whizzing sound, for instance?"

Harry shook his head no.

"Then I'd say it was a recurve crossbow, from the distance it's in his skull, at least 175 pounds draw, maybe even 200," Nobby said. From the angle it's in him, it came through the window. We could take a piece of string and tie it to the bolt, and work our way back to where he must have stood."

Nobby began going through the Igor's pockets, surreptiously examining the contents. "Yep, all Igors usually carry some string, here's some. I'll hold it here, if someone paces it off."

"You can pace it off, Nobby," Carrot said, holding his face in a tight smile. "That way we can make sure we get all the contents out of his pockets."

Nobby gave Carrot a sidelong glance, shrugged, and then tied the string to the arrow and began to walk to the window. Colon walked outside, retrieved the string from Nobby, and the two of them began to search for the origin of the shot.

Detritus had been making a careful chalk outline around the Igor. Soon, a knock came on the door, and Igor – that is, the Watch Igor, haven't you been paying attention? – came in.

"Ah," the Igor said. "I thought it might happen."

"Do you know who would have wanted him inhumaned?" Carrot asked.

"Carrot, I like my job at the Watch. But there is some delicate Igor politics going on here in the background. All I'll say right now is that Igor shouldn't ha' been trying to deal with all that fat. There are challenges for Igors, and certainly all Igors want to be on the cutting edge of Igorring. Igor wanted to be up there … he got too greedy. It was better this way, maybe."

"So he _was_ behind the thefts at the Fat Warehouse?" Harry asked.

"I believe so," Igor said, dexterously removing the crossbow bolt, and handing it to Carrot, who was careful to hold the end of the string for Nobby and Colon.

"I'm going to recycle his usable parts," Igor said. "He'd've wanted that."

"Where was he taking the fat?" asked Harry.

"I don't know. It was out of Ankh-Morpork, though, I'm pretty sure," Igor said. He lifted up Igor's body and placed it over his shoulder.

"I'll be leaving now, Captain," Igor said. "If I act quickly I can spare the internal organs as well."

"Fine," Carrot said. "We just need to wait on Fred and Nobby."

On cue, they walked in. "Seems like the shot came from behind those rubbish bins outside that slop house," Sgt. Colon said. "About 400 feet, that's a heckuva good shot."

"Tha's where we found him," said Angua quietly. She was still laying on her back and resting. "He was in there drinkin' and we brought him here."

"Well, there goes one of our best leads," Carrot said. "Tomorrow, the Watch will make inquiries at the slop shop. And we'll resume our questioning of Mr. Avoir. Meantime, it's been a long day for everyone. Detritus, if you're finished here, let's all turn in."

"Yep, dat's all, folks," Detritus said, putting his chalk away.

Carrot picked up Angua as though she were a rag doll, and carefully cradled her in his arms. "Come on, Harry. Let's go back home. Tomorrow is another day."


	14. The Specialists

**A/N Disclosures in Chapter One. As always.**

**Dumbledork**: Thanks for your support. All of us along the Gulf Coast face many difficult years ahead. "I WILL CERTAINLY APPEAR LATER," Death said. "THE SCENE HAS ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN. BUT NOW IS A BIT EARLY, DON'T YOU THINK?"

**THE SPECIALISTS**

Harry was staring at the ceiling. Captain Carrot was sitting beside Angua, who lay in the bed, sleeping miserably, but much comforted after taking the draught of wolfsbane potion that Harry had made for her.

He was surprised it was so easy to get the materials in the dead of night, but he supposed that when Captain Carrot asked – politely – the closed apothecary to open and give him what he wanted, the healer had seemed _very_ eager to oblige.

_It was about 9 a.m. when I was at UU_, Harry thought. _And that was … about 2:30 a.m., so if it's now just after midnight, then it's … what, about 7 p.m.? I guess?_

Harry flipped open the PDA. The imp glared at him. "Ya gotta a call," it said sulkily.

"From who?" Harry asked. "I never heard the phone ring."

"I don't do rings, nor bells, nor none o' that other stuff. I glow yeller, got it," the imp said. "Anyway, it was yer bird, Hermione. She said to give her a ring."

"Okay," Harry said. "Do it."

The imp grunted and disappeared below the handset. After a second, Harry heard a familiar voice.

"Harry? Is that you?" Hermione said eagerly.

"Yep," he said. "How are you?"

"Fine," Hermione said. "I'm just finishing dinner. How about you?"

"I'm fine, I think it's one o'clock in the morning here," he said.

"Gosh! Why call so late?" Hermione asked.

"I've … been busy," he said. There was a brief pause.

Hermione knew from experience what it meant then an auror was out late at night, and got home and felt too tired to sleep.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Carrot's girlfriend got hit pretty bad, though. I helped as best I could, but I just kept looking at her and thinking it was you," Harry said.

"Oh god, Harry, don't say that," Hermione said. "I … I'm not there to help you, I'm so sorry, but what can I do?"

"Nothing," said Harry flatly. "It's just one of those days."

There was another pause.

"Do you know that I love you more than anything in the universe?" Hermione asked.

Against his will, Harry smiled. "Yes," he said.

"Are you sure you know? That I love you? That I'd do anything to make your life easier?" she said.

"Just talking to you makes it easier," said Harry. "The imp said you called earlier, but this PDA doesn't ring, it glows, apparently, and I had it inside my pocket, so I never noticed."

"That's okay," Hermione said. "But yes, I did call earlier. I had spoken with Professor Rincewind at Hogwarts. He wanted to tell you that he hasn't yet been able to reproduce the thaumic trace they've found."

"Right," Harry said. _That was what Stibbons said. They couldn't find the thaumic signature._

"Um, Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"What the heck does that mean anyway?" Harry asked.

"Well, Harry at Unseen University, they measure magic in thaums," Hermione's voice, as soothing and self assured as it had been at Hogwarts, washed over Harry. "It's sort of like measuring electricity in ohms or heat in BTUs. You remember, when we tried to tell Ron not to buy that new heater for Mr. Weasley because it would draw too much power?"

Harry snickered. It had taken very nearly burning down the Burrow for Molly Weasley to finally get her husband to agree to test his muggle devices out in the shed. "How could I forget?" he said. Now he really _was_ smiling.

"Well, we knew it wouldn't work because the heater was attempting to draw too many ohms from that extension cord," Hermione said. "Think of thaums the same way. The lumos spell, for instance, can be cast wordlessly and wandlessly, just by force of will. It requires very few thaums indeed. Now, in comparison, one of the Unforgivable curses …"

Harry's mind was racing ahead – er, back – now, to a heated conversation he had with Bellatrix Lestrange, many years ago. 'You've got to _mean_ them!' she had shouted about trying to use the Cruciatus Curse, that gloomy evening in the Department of Mysteries. He had learned that with a vengeance – that the Unforgivable Curses really required effort and strength to cast. He hadn't had the opportunity to discuss it again with Ms. Lestrange, owing to the fact that he had severed her vocal cords – and indeed, her entire head – with Godric Gryffindor's sword on the night he had finally killed Tom Riddle.

"You there?" Hermione asked.

"Sure am," Harry said. "So the more powerful the spell, the more thaums it draws, and I guess it follows that not each wizard or witch has the ability to generate the same amount of thaums, which explains why some of us are squibs, and some are as powerful as Albus Dumbledore."

"Yes, but there's more to it than that," Hermione said. "Each individual has a unique source of their own power that they put into a spell, so your thaums are inherently different from mine. This also explains why some wizards are drawn to certain wands, and others are not."

Harry's memory replayed a portion of his life at Ollivander's. 'The wand chooses the wizard,' the old shopkeeper had said.

"But if you have enough power, you can force a wand to still cast," Harry said, thinking about his own experience in fighting. "The spell might not be as powerful as you want, but if you have the power, you can still push it out."

"Right, but it also would bear your imprint," Hermione said. "A thaumic signature is like a fingerprint. If you have the signature, you should be able to find out what wizard cast the spell."

"So the wizards … they don't know who's casting these spells?" Harry wondered aloud.

"That's what I guess, Harry," Hermione said. "You see, there are probably less than 200 wizards and witches on the whole of the Discworld, so they can find out everyone's unique thaumic signature pretty easily. There were more than 200 wizards in our year at Hogwarts. London alone probably has a few thousand, and the whole of England tens of thousands. We couldn't keep track of all of them."

"The reason that they can't trace the thaumic signature is because it's not a Discworld wizard," said Harry. "It's a Death Eater."

Hermione felt a cold chill ripple through her body.

"But, Harry, it …" her voice trailed off.

"No, that's got to be it," Harry said. "It's the only piece of jigsaw that fits. For people who aren't supposed to know about earth, every person I meet seems to know about it. Plus, the Dark Mark is being used here. I've seen it; when they smashed the temple of Hyperopia, it was there, lingering, in the smoke. The reason that the wizards at Unseen University don't know this thaumic signature is because one of the Death Eaters that escaped us somehow found a way a here."

Hermione didn't say anything. There didn't seem to be anything to say.

"Thanks, sweetheart. I love you so much," Harry said. "You always help me to see things for what they are."

"You be careful," she said, her voice wavering.

"I will be," Harry said, suddenly sleepy. "I'm going to bed now – must be nearly 2 a.m. – but thanks again. I love you. I'll call soon."

"Harry – Harry! You don't do anything stupid, now! Harry! I love you!" Hermione shouted at the phone.

"I love you, too, babe. Good night," Harry said. He looked for an off button, and didn't find one. "Imp?"

The imp peered out.

"I – am finished at this time with my conversation," Harry said.

The imp nodded sleepily and the PDA stopped glowing.

Harry laid down. _Death Eaters in Ankh-Morpork_, he thought. _Now we just have to figure out where they are and how to stop them_.

…

The next afternoon saw a conference in Vimes' office with Captain Carrot, Lance-Corporals Angua and Littlebottom, and of course Harry, reporting to the Commander.

"Right," Vimes said, pulling a drag on a cigar. "So, what do we know so far? Carrot?"

"The assaults on temples continue, with Annoia being hit last night," Carrot said. "Pamphlets are now being distributed after each attack, and some have surfaced at most of the city's markets. Each time, the Grave Gourmands torch the temple, and seem to create a skull mark after they do it. They must not have a spare mangonel, because when they hit Annoia they used barrels of torch oil that were rolled into place and then ignited."

"The Dark Mark," Harry said.

"What's that?" Vimes said.

"We call it the Dark Mark," Harry said. Vimes looked at him sharply and nodded curtly.

"Cherie?" the Commander asked.

"Sir, Igor was definitely behind the thefts of fat, in my opinion," Littlebottom said. "The autopsy I performed with Igor definitely shows traces of Uberwald #2 high-grade tallow on him. I don't know what they were doing, exactly, though I'd be willing to bet he was working on the horses, first. Angua, Harry and I were close to hearing it before he got hit with the crossbow bolt."

"He said it wasn't necromancy," Angua said. She had recovered a good deal of strength in the night, and taken another draught of the wolfsbane potion. "He said it was more like a resurrection, though I don't know what he meant by that. I may go back and interview Susan again, just to see if she can get me any more details about what he may have been doing after he left her service.

"Colon and Nobby have been back to the slop shop. No ideas yet who did the shooting. The trail's been pretty covered."

"Has Visit said anything about the Omnians?" Vimes asked Carrot.

"He said the pamphlets seem a bit weird," Carrot said. "Not blasphemy, as such, but it wasn't any tract he was familiar with."

"Okay," Vimes said. He looked at Harry. "Anything else?"

Harry hesitated. He knew that he needed to tell the Watch what he had realized last night, but wasn't quite sure how to say it.

"Well, the wizards at Unseen University haven't been able to determine the thaumic signature," Harry said. "I haven't actually been able to work on this so much, as we don't measure …"

His voice trailed off. This was where it was going to get tough.

"Well," barked Vimes.

"Sir, permission to speak freely," Potter said.

Vimes looked at him sharply, and then at his Watchmen. "Granted."

"Exactly how many people know – really know – where I'm from?" Harry said.

"I don't know what you mean, Constable," Vimes said in a neutral voice.

Carrot looked puzzled again. "Aren't you from Lon-?" he asked.

Harry looked exasperated, but looked straight at Vimes. "The wizards all know where I'm from, sir. As do you. Constable Angua knows I'm not from the Counterweight Continent. I'm assuming her … special … abilities have helped her in that regard. Corporal Littlebottom knows. A monk named Qu in the Cable Street Particulars apparently knows where I'm from. And last night, Ms. Susan Sto-Helit …" his voice trailed off. He wished he had spent some more time talking with Susan, he really wasn't sure _what_ she was.

"Well, is there anyone else? I don't feel like I'm keeping up much of a pretense, here."

There was a short silence.

Vimes finally offered: "The Patrician certainly knows. I think that's it."

"So where are you really from, Harry?" asked Carrot, going straight to the heart of the matter.

Harry said nothing, but looked at Vimes. Finally the Commander took a deep drag on his cigar and then a breath.

"Right, you lot, what's being discussed now is absolutely considered a Patrician's Secret. If you don't wish to end up spending the rest of your life locked up with Leonard of Quirm, you'll forget everything you've heard as soon as you leave.

"Potter's from a city called London. That's the capital of a country called England, located in a parallel world to ours known as the Roundworld. I've been there, myself, on loan to their version of the Watch. It's … an entire world, accessed within the HEM building at Unseen University."

To Harry's surprise, everyone seemed to accept this with equanimity.

"So we can travel between both worlds?" Carrot asked.

"Yes, but it is imperative to the continued existence of both of our worlds that we do not," Vimes said sharply. "The wizard Rincewind is currently on Roundworld trying to balance the fact that Mr. Potter is here. Mr. Potter is, in fact, an extremely powerful wizard on his own world. He was principal in the capture and execution of a leader of group of renegade wizards. Who used this" – and here he showed the picture of the Grave Gourmand's tattoo – "as a badge of identification."

"We call it the Dark Mark," Harry began. Now his story was easy. "The people who wore it, in my world, are called Death Eaters. Death Eaters – Grave Gourmands – you see the resemblance. They were the followers of an extraordinarily powerful wizard, Tom Marvolo Riddle. Riddle held a reign of terror over most of Europe – er, most of our country and our surrounding neighbor countries – for more than 50 years."

"And now the tattoos are showing up here?" Littlebottom said. "Could he have escaped here?"

"No," Harry said. He hesitated, and then said the rest of it. "I killed him. Personally. It was him or me. Riddle killed my parents. My family. My friends. He recognized no authority other than himself. In the end, it was him or me. So it was him. Believe me when I tell you that what I went through … he is as dead as dead gets."

"Although I didn't have the pleasure of being there to observe personally, I heard the story from many personally who were involved with Mr. Potter," Vimes said.

"So it's not him," Carrot said. "But one of his followers? Another Death Eater?"

"Um, maybe. Possibly. Which brings me back to my point earlier," Harry said. "Although my world is more advanced than yours in some ways, in some ways your study of magic is more advanced than ours. Wizards who use magic leave a distinctive thaumic trace. Apparently, there is some evidence that the magic that has been happening here is not of Discworld origin. I suspect that the reason is because one of the Death Eaters has found a way to the Disc, and so the wizards at Unseen University don't know his signature."

"So what about the whole thing about knocking down temples?" Angua asked. "We've got, what, four attacks so far, and these pamphlets that they're scattering around? Are they some kind of Omnian?"

"To be honest, I really have no idea what an Omnian is," Harry said. "But I can tell you that although murder and arson are part of their method of operating, attacking temples is completely new. They never did anything like that before. And these pamphlet things, that was never their style. So I don't really have an answer for you. Maybe there are two different groups, not just one."

"We'd better find the answers to some questions soon," said Vimes, in a voice which made each of the Watchmen stiffen their backs.

There was a brief silence. "Commander, didn't you say that there was a printing press stolen?" Harry asked.

"Yes, there was. Now I assume you are going to suggest that the stolen printing press and paper are obviously being used to print the pamphlets," Vimes said.

"Er, yes, I was," Harry squeaked.

"Yes, Potter, that seems likely," Vimes said.

Harry breathed. _At least I'm not totally stupid._

"So, we need to find that too," Vimes said. "Too many problems … we'll have to specialize."

Several puffs of smoke made their way to the ceiling.

"We need to trace the fat and this Igorring, find the Lancre connection suggested by the mangonel, find the printing press and find out more about the pamphlets," Vimes began. "Also, we need to stop the attacks on the temples, and prod the wizards again on this thaumic signature."

His voice trailed off. The puffing didn't.

"Right, the temples, the printing press, pamphlets, and Omnians. Carrot, I want Visit on that, primarily, with you as backup. There's no one else who has as much credibility moving in and out of the temples.

"Potter, you're the wizard here, you're on the thaumic problem.

"Angua, you and Littlebottom are leads on the fat team and Igorring. You know more about tracing it and the terrain."

Vimes blew a smoke ring. "Potter, I'm having Detritus work with you primarily, since I've never yet found any magic that can blast a rock troll to pieces. I agree that your cover story wasn't that well crafted, not that we had a lot of time to do so. Detritus won't ask, so don't tell him where you're from. Keep going on living the cover you've established. I understand how Qu and Susan Sto-Helit can have seen through that. Once again, don't tell them anything unless they ask directly, and even then, use your judgment."

The room was silent as the meeting was coming to an end. The Watch – other than Harry – got to its feet. They looked down and he looked up.

"It just seems that we should be doing more, even though that's so much," Harry said.

"Yes, well, if we could, we would," Vimes said. "Any suggestions?"

Harry sighed. "I don't know. I just wish that I could ask Albus Dumbledore for advice." He stood up to join his colleagues in dismissal. As he did so, Vimes reached for his hat and got up as well.

"Great idea, lad. I'll do it."


	15. Burglar who Studied Spinoza

**A/N You should know the drill by now. It's in Chapter One.**

**THE BURGLAR WHO STUDIED SPINOZA**

Back in the squad room, Detritus was waiting for Harry. "So youse is my new pardner," the troll said without preamble.

"I guess so, Sergeant," Harry said.

"Dat's fine," Detritus said. "I's like workin' wit new peoples. We gonna go thru th' university?"

"Just there, I think," Harry said. "We'd better let Stibbons know we're coming, I guess I could send them one of those clack-things." His hand strayed to his pocket for a pen, when he encountered the PDA. "On second thought …"

He flipped open the PDA. The imp squinted back. "Can you connect me to Ponder Stibbons?" Harry asked. The imp shrugged. "If he's in with Hex, I reckon," and then pulled some microscopic levers.

The disembodied voice of the thinking machine came through the PDA. "I understand you wish to speak with Mr. Stibbons," Hex said. "He is currently in the library with the Librarian. I will get a message to him that you wish to see him."

"Oh, right," Harry said. "I guess we could…" his voice trailed off as he looked at Detritus, whose face was a crater of thoughts-in-process. Much the same as a glacier is a canyon-in-progress.

"Whose is you talkin' to?" the troll demanded.

"Its …" Harry didn't actually know who – or what – Hex really was. "An entity at Unseen University."

"Well, tell this Anne that we is coming right now," Detritus said. "You heared that, Anne?"

There was a slight pause. "We await your visit, Sergeant Detritus and Constable Potter," said the voice of Hex. The PDA stopped glowing.

Harry stared. "You don' give wizards too much time," Detritus said. "Otherwise, you got to wait for them to finish eatin' and it takes too long."

"Okay, I guess," Harry said. "By the way, who is Anne?"

"Anne? Dat's who you is talkin' too," Detritus replied.

"I … thought I was talking to Hex," Harry said.

"You said you was talkin' to Anne Nitity," Detritus said. "Never met her. I gues she's new."

Harry sighed. "Let's go, shall we?"

Harry and Detritus trudged back down the soggy streets of Ankh-Morpork to Unseen University. Despite the trolls' near four-foot height disparity over Harry, he noticed that the two of them shared the same, well-worn, Watchmen's gait, emphasizing comfort over speed. This ensured they stayed in fine lockstep all the way to the university.

They reached the gates, which swung open for them soundlessly, and closed back, and they returned to the High-Energy Magic building.

Mr. Stibbons was slightly breathless. "Don't waste much time, do you?" he complained. The wizard turned his attention to the students, who were studying the color-coded thaumic chart. "Mr. Turnipseed, and Mr. Cottonmather. Please retrieve a block of the super-cooled ice, and place it on Sergeant Detritus' head."

The troll sat down in front of the chart, and the two students quickly came with a sizable block that they sat on Detritus' head.

"Right, everyone, that's it for today," Stibbons said. "And no sneaking in to download naughty parchments on Hex via L-space. If I find out who is doing that, it's expulsion."

Amidst a quibbling of 'it's not us, it's the Dean,' the students left.

"Right, Mr. Potter, now what is it?" Stibbons said.

"Er, first, why the block of ice?" Harry said.

Stibbons looked at Harry impatiently. "Trolls' brains are made of silicon. When cooled, the silicon vibrates faster, allowing greater and deeper range of thought. Since your partner is here, we might as well get some thought out of him.

"Now, let's get up to speed. Hex, open a channel to Rincewind, will you?"

There was a pause. "What is it?" came a sleepy voice.

"Rincewind, I'd be worried about interrupting your beauty rest, save for the fact that you have no beauty _to_ rest," Stibbons said. "Potter is here. What can you tell us about the thaumic signatures?"

There was some disembodied muttering. "Well, I think it's an earth wizard," Rincewind said moodily. "But there aren't any journals or books on the thaum, or on thaumic trace, here at Hogwarts. I don't think the wizards here have begun to recognize thaumic patterns. Even the most advanced of their arithmancy texts doesn't cover it. That's making it hard for me to see what a thaumic signature would look like from this side. I've been catching little glamours, things I can trace, to see if I can generate a thaumic field, but no luck so far."

"Hmm…" Stibbons stoked his chin, wishing for the umpteenth time he'd been able to grow a beard, so that at least he would look dignified. "Well, Harry?"

"Professor, perhaps it would be best if you could show me some thaumic signatures on this chart, so I can get an idea of what to look for," Harry suggested.

Stibbons sighed and walked up to the chart, which was full of multicolored lines and dashes. Dates ran across the bottom axis and a scale was on the right axis. Harry noticed, now, that the chart was attached to two polls, which scrolled across, so that parchment moved as the chart kept current, but it could be rolled back to see previous positions.

"Here's your spike," Stibbons said. "This was the one soon after your arrival. See the date, here, at the bottom? Your spike is a mix of blue and ocatrine, with a little greenish hue. It's quite high – nearly 8,000 thaums. Very few wizards here are capable of generating that level of power just by force of will."

"And every single wizard and witch known are mapped by their signature?" Harry asked.

"Well, not every one," Stibbons admitted. "But still, we can guess at most of them. Look down here for instance," he said, and flowed the chart so the scale suddenly read in the hundreds, rather than the thousands. "See this brown and violet? Notice it's nice and smooth, rather than spiky, like yours? That's Esmerelda Weatherwax. No doubt she's using her borrowing magic. I don't have to run any tests, I just know it's her since I've seen it so often I know it like that back of my … hmm, that's strange."

"What?" prompted Harry.

"She's drawing at least twice the normal power she usually does when she's borrowing," Stibbons said. He thought for a moment. "Oh, well, she's probably teaching young Tiffany Aching borrowing. I know that Miss Weatherwax has wanted to teach someone the magic for some time, and Tiffany's just the right age. In any event, these little traces down here are some of the other Lancre witches. Brown, with some violet. This one is definitely Perdita Nitt."

Harry took this in. "So what are the strange thaumic patterns?"

Stibbons rolled the chart back. "The first one, many months back now, you'll see is a thaumic spike at nearly 79,000 thaums. That's massive. In fact, it's off the scale. So much off the scale that we can't show the spike. You can see we have part of it, but no more, since it ran over the meter. It could even have been 90,000 or 100,000 thaums, we don't know."

The patterns were in a loathsome chartreuse, with a dash of hideous beige. They were the types of colors that would normally be chosen by the interior decorator of hell for a truly repugnant style of window-treatment.

"Now I'll alter the scale a bit, so we can see this same type of spike. Five of them, all together, all in the 12,000 thaum range, same color, same spike signature," Stibbons said.

They looked at the chart. _This is where Hermione is home_, thought Harry. _She'd read this and immediately see the connection-_

"The temple attacks," came a rumble.

Harry looked at Stibbons, who looked back at Harry. Then they both looked at Detritus.

"The thaumic pattern you are indicating corresponds to the dates and times of the attacks on the various city temples by the Grave Gourmands," Detritus said.

_That does it. I'm putting a permanent freezing charm on his head,_ Harry thought.

"It's the Dark Mark," Harry said aloud.

"The what?" Stibbons asked.

"He's right," said Harry, growing excited. "It's the Dark Mark."

He was beginning to see the allure of charts that had long ago revealed itself to people like Hermione Granger, and other children, who go on to lives as weatherpersons or economists. On a chart, you could track an idea down, stick a pin it, and leave it fluttering like a wounded butterfly … but unlike the butterfly, you could pull the pin out, and the idea would get up and fly for you again, so you could pin it down and watch it in a different position. It was like saying Riddle's name – it made it that much easier to think you could defeat him. People got all caught up with "oh no, it's _LORD VOLDEMORT_ who is after me!" But they never got so fussed over, "eh, just smelly ole Tommy Riddle again, the cheeky bugger." You could smack Tommy Riddles out of your life like an aggravating gnat. Lord Voldemorts were tough. But on the chart … reduced to simple mathematical patterns, they were stripped of their outer vestige of superiorness and left as a line. A line that you could _erase_.

"Hot damn, Detritus! Right on," Harry said.

"Cool," corrected Detritus.

"Would you mind explaining what all this is about?" asked Stibbons.

"Okay, the Death Eaters … the Grave Gourmands, whatever you want to call them," Harry said, impatiently in a rush now. "When they attack something, they leave a mark. Their calling card, if you will. It's a symbol of a human skull with a snake coming out of the mouth. We call it the 'Dark Mark.' When they would attack someone, they would end the attack by destroying the home or building and then use a spell to cast the Dark Mark over the area, so people know they've attacked it. That's what this is. It's a record of a wizard using the Dark Mark."

Stibbons considered this. "So your theory, then, is that the previous high-thaum spike was of a Roundworld wizard somehow making his way to Discworld?"

Harry was a bit disconcerted that Stibbons had figured it out so quickly, but nodded approvingly. "I think it's the only theory that fits," Harry said. "But I don't know how they got here. When we took out Voldemort, the leader of the Death Eaters, certainly some of them escaped. We never did round all of them up – about 10 made it out on the loose we knew of. Voldemort dabbled in all sorts of magic, so it's possible he learned of the Discworld."

There was a silence. "Anything else on your end in the library, Rincewind?" Stibbons asked.

"Not such as yet, no," Rincewind said. "So far as I can tell, there is no L-Space opening emanating from the Hogwarts library. It's certainly possible to use L-Space to get _into_ the library, but I'm almost certain it would be a one-way trip. I can't see any way out from here."

"What's L-space?" asked Harry.

"Well, a bit hard to explain," Stibbons said. "Rincewind? You're the librarian here."

"Mmm. Harry, knowledge equals power, right?" came the disembodied voice.

"Okay," Harry said.

"And power equals energy. Energy, via the theory of relativity, equals matter, with a bit of help from the speed of light. And matter equals mass," Rincewind finished. "This is the L-space equation. What it means is that if you aggregate enough books in one place, you can bend the space-time continuum. A library is the perfect place to create an L-space node. Senior librarians or careful readers can use the nodes to travel from library to library, all across the multiverse."

This was too much for Harry. "I'm sorry, but do you mean that if I just read enough in the Hogwarts library I could travel through different worlds and dimensions?"

"Precisely," Stibbons said. "Good literature can take you anywhere. In this case, however, and in the right conditions, even one word is enough, if there is enough belief. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, Roundworld does not have the right conditions."

"Because magic works differently there?" Harry asked.

"Perhaps," Stibbons said. "I've never detected deitygen or imperativium in even small elemental form there. Here on Discworld, those elements are vital constructs of belief, which is how things run."

There was a general silence as the four – plus Hex, of course – absorbed this.

Harry shook his head for a minute. Deitygen and Imperativium … those were too hard to grasp. He went back to the physical reality of the chart.

"Okay, so _why_ are they attacking temples, then?" Harry asked. "I mean, the Death Eaters never did anything like that on Roundworld. Oh, they went for high-value, publicly visible targets, all right. But never temples."

Stibbons looked disappointed. "I was hoping you were going to tell me that was exactly what they _did_ do. But even so, these aren't major deities. The attacks are all on small gods. Not the big players."

Harry considered this. "Well, who are the big players?"

To their surpise, it was Detritus that spoke. "In terms of followers, Om, the Blind Io, the Lady, Fate and Offler the Crocadile-headed have the most followers on the Disc," the troll said. "There are many, many minor gods, that spring up when the requisite amount of belief is generated, and also that die out, when there is no longer belief to support them. A god is numinous only so long as there is sufficient belief to support it."

There are many things that can trigger memories. Smells, in particular, are closely associated with memory, such as, "ye gods, it smells just like the last time that someone forgot to take the trash out." But some words can trigger memories just as effectively. Fortunately for Harry, the key word here was 'numinous.'

It had been about three years ago, and it had been an Unusual Saturday. Unusual in the sense that neither he nor Hermione had any plans whatsoever. Being an Auror was a full-time job that precluded the concept of weekends, since the bad guys tended to view them as work days. And Hermione's constant experiments often meant she was on call, normally to put out the fire. But this Unusual Saturday …

This unusual Saturday they both had completely free. It was Harry's idea that the day could most profitably be spent by sleeping in till 1 p.m., heading down for a pub lunch at 1:30, and then making it lazily back to catch the end of the quidditch on the Wizarding Wireless.

Hermione, on the other hand, had enrolled them at a muggle 'Working Day' at the British Museum. They would attend a six-hour series of lectures on the topic of Chinese mythology. Harry had realized, somewhat belatedly, that if you are in love with someone, you will sometimes do very _stupid_ things for them.

In this case, the _stupid_ thing to do would have been to sleep in, get drunk, and listen to quidditch. So he didn't. Instead, he went with Hermione.

To his surprise, he enjoyed it. The lectures were fascinating, the professors – from many lofty universities around the world – were engaging and brought interest and humor into their talks. Augmented by the collection of arguably the greatest museum on earth, it was a startling revelation to Harry that learning could be fun.

By far the most interesting lecture had been made by a fellow from Surrey, who although not a professor, had lived in China for 30 years and was as learned as anyone. This man collected dead gods. " 'When a god loses his numinous power – that is, his power to be effective and cause fortune for his followers – that god begins to suffer. Fewer people believe in the god. Eventually, the god is fired. The statue of the god is removed and discarded, and a new god takes his place. The old god is no longer believed in, and a new god is necessary. This belief requires a new temple, a new statue, and new rituals,' " the man had explained. He had gone around collecting the statues of the dead gods, which now anointed his garden inasmuch as some muggles collected lawn gnomes. Harry had reflected that if Mrs. Weasley had gone round to his house for tea, she'd have fainted dead away.

He had been dwelling in a reverie over this memory for so long that Stibbons had to physically tap on the shoulder.

"What?" said Harry, jumping.

"Care to share what you're thinking?" Stibbons asked again.

"I'm thinking about dead gods," Harry said. "What is the net result of the smashing of the temples? I mean, the really big gods, probably, it would case public outcry and then there would be a rebuilding campaign and the temple would get re-dedicated.

"But the smaller gods … people would stop going to the temple, since it's burned down. Maybe they would join another temple, maybe they would believe in another god, but probably … it would be apathy. They'd forget about dealing with the gods for awhile, until some big event came along. If you knocked off enough small gods, would that create an available pool of belief?"

Stibbons was writing, furiously, in a notebook. Rincewind's voice came through the wires again. "I've been to Cori Celesti, the home of the gods," he said. "I think your theory is possible. Lots of gods get created every few seconds, but because there isn't a sustaining amount of belief, they vanish back into the mists, and the excess belief is returned. If you knocked out enough small gods, yes, I reckon you could generate a belief vacuum."

"But who would want to create a belief vacuum? You'd have to fill it," Stibbons said. "Would the Grave Gourmands really want to create some kind of new god?"

"Perhaps they are merely attempting to control the excess belief," said Detritus. The ice had nearly melted away now. "Maybe it could be parceled and sold for profit to the major gods."

"That's possible," Stibbons said. "Possibly. It would very quickly get them into high stead with the major gods, who would covet that extra belief, and further cement their power."

Harry wasn't quite thinking that. "I'm not so sure," he said finally. "I keep thinking there's something more, something we haven't seen yet. But this is the furthest we've gotten so far."

Detritus stood up. "Then we better get back to the Watch house," he said. "I's got a feelin' we got to get on patrole."

Harry looked at his sergeant sadly. "So when the ice melts …"

Stibbons nodded. "He used to have a hat which kept his brains specially cool. It was designed by a dwarf who was his first partner, I understand. But his partner was killed in the line of duty, and he swore he'd never wear another."

Harry shrugged. He understood the fierce devotion you had to your partners. It was part of what made you a Watchman. It was most certainly going to be part of what he incorporated into his being an Auror. Harry reflected he might not have been the best partner his various Auror colleagues had had in the past. That, he thought, would have to be made up for.

"Right, sergeant. Back to the Watch, then," Harry said.

The sergeant nodded towards Stibbons. "Bee seeing u, sah."


	16. Write For Your Life

**A/N The disclaimer is in the usual spot, chapter one. Ye faithful should know that by now.**

**We've come to that fun spot when the intelligent reader has jumped ahead and got the conclusion, and should be just sitting back enjoying the rest of the ride, waiting to get there. Most of your tosses are hitting the darts board, but no one's quite got the bulls-eye yet (some close grazes). Virtual bottles of Loretto, Ky., to you. I gratefully appreciate all of your fine reviews, but please don't give away too much to the readers coming later. Excess belief is pivotal, in all of the myriad ways that it can be generated (cf SOD series, The Last Hero, Going Postal, Thud!). I'm mildly surprised that no one has foreseen the big plot twist yet; I'd have thought by now it was well-telegraphed. This chapter will be relatively begin to put it together.**

**On another note, I am considering abandoning my HP-Cthulhu fic, also on this site. I simply have too many other projects on my hands, not to mention my primary function of attempting to survive in my hurricane-ravaged hometown. Should there be someone who is interested in picking it up, I will give the secret keys to the fic – that is, my back story, outline, and the four other chapters I've written for it – to anyone who would like to continue it. Please e-mail privately if you are interested.**

**WRITE FOR YOUR LIFE**

It was more than six days before Harry could share his news with the team in a formal meeting in Sam Vimes' private office. It wasn't that he had intentionally withheld the information; but he quite simply had had no time to discuss his findings. One of the unwritten rules of the police force (just under 'there is always too much paper work') is that 'there is never enough manpower.'

In this case, the lack of manpower meant that the Watch were busy watching many other problems. There were, apparently, some difficulties in delivering the mail, which entailed their efforts in that vein, and there were some challenges in working with Uberwald relations. Harry wasn't altogether clear on this point but apparently it had something to do with vampire rights.

When the specialists finally were able to return to the Watch house, Harry was nearly bursting to tell them his findings at UU. To his disappointment, his fellow Watch officers weren't nearly as excited about his findings.

"So, you're sure now, that it's a Death Eater," Vimes said, glassy-eyed, clearly bored with Harry's in-depth explanations of the thaumic chart.

"Yes, sir," Harry said, eagerly. "It's certainly a Death Eater."

"And how does that differ from your opinion of a week ago – sorry, of whenever our last meeting was?" Vimes said.

"Um … well, it's the same opinion … it's just that … I'm sure now," Harry said, a bit hurt. _Now I know how Hermione's felt all these years_, he thought. _I owe her so much_.

"Right. We were sure before, too. Ok, so now we know it. But if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, and has webbed feet like a duck, it's probably one of Foul Ole Ron's friends, right? We don't need to scientifically prove things. We just need a reasonable doubt that we can make a case with," Vimes said. He looked at Harry, who seemed upset. "Well?"

"It's just that, well, Ron is one of my closest friends," Harry said. "There's no need to call him foul, although I know some people who would use harsher terms."

"I'm pretty sure Commander Vimes didn't just insult your friend, Harry," Angua said with a smirk.

"Huh?" Harry said.

"Ron is a member of our city's … vagrant population," Carrot explained.

"And he reminds you of a duck?" Harry said.

"Nah, it's his friend, the Duck Man," Vimes said, lighting a cheroot. "He has a duck on his head."

Suddenly, Harry's mind cast him back to his first day in Ankh-Morpork. "And he has a … dog," Harry said, neutrally.

"Ah, I see you've met Gaspode," Angua said. "He's a thinking-brain dog."

_Merlin, this place is messed up,_ Harry thought.

"Right. What else? Cheery?"

"Well, not so much, sir," she said. "We haven't been able to find out what Igor was doing in the city. Igor thinks it had to do with some really serious Igorring, and the horses were test cases. But we still haven't found his lab, if he had one. Angua doesn't seem to think he did."

All eyes went to the Watchwolf. "Sir, I'd smell that fat and the horseflesh underwater. Even the Ankh. The only place it smells is near the track. I bet that they were bringing equipment from wherever the Grave Gourmand Local #102 is, experimenting, and disbanding, all within the same evening," Angua said. "It would mean that it took a _lot_ longer, they couldn't control the conditions well enough, and they couldn't leave experiments out overnight. But it would be safer. There would be literally nothing _to_ arrest. Or seize. So he didn't have a hideout per se. But that doesn't mean he wasn't making notes, reports, and there's no record. We have to find that."

"Any idea where the fat is now?" Vimes said.

"I'm almost sure it's left the city," Angua said. "I traced the smell out of the city's west gates. I think it went down the Lancre road, but I can't be as sure of that."

"There was a Lancre connection, wasn't there?" Vimes said. "The mangonel?"

"Yes, the mangonel was made of Lancre wood," Littlebottom replied. "Of course, it could have been cut down some time ago and re-assembled. So we can't be sure it was recent. But overall, I'd have to say the evidence points to some kind of Lancre connection."

"Yes, that was Albus' advice. Keep looking in Lancre," Vimes said impassively.

"Albus Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Vimes said quietly.

"I told you he was dead, didn't I?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Vimes said again, quietly.

"Then how did you possibly ask him?" Harry asked.

"It doesn't matter how, he's dead," Vimes said.

"_Y e s_, but you just said you spoke with him," Harry persisted.

"Your powers of hearing are truly remarkable, Potter," Vimes said, in a manner that reminded Harry exactly of Severus Snape.

"So … how … did _you _do some kind of necromancy?" Harry asked, uncertain where he should be taking this. "Sir, he was my closest mentor, a vital friend … _how_ did you talk to him!" Harry's voice ended in a shrill shout. _Not what I should have said,_ Harry thought.

If Vimes was angered at Harry's tone, he gave no sign of it. "No, Potter, I do not do necromancy. Nor ouijia boards. Nor yet do I write letters to the temples. I asked him. We discussed the situation for some time, and Lancre seemed the most suitable avenue of investigation."

Harry was now beyond flummoxed, and also angry. "_HOW_?" he nearly shouted.

"How is none of your dam' business," Vimes said sharply. "The point is, that he suggested that we check out Lancre. I'm assigning you, Angua, and Carrot to go and check it out. I need Littlebottom here as my forensics expert, and Detritus will probably welcome the buttock-prodding possibilities that Carrot's absence will suggest. On our end, we will continue to a search-and-destroy mission for Grave Gourmand targets within the city."

There was a silence over the group. Harry knew that he shouldn't have shouted, and he regretted it, but he wasn't going to apologize just yet. He still had not yet forgiven people for keeping information from him. Loyalty, amongst all of the other virtues, was _everything_ to Harry.

"Which leaves Carrot," Vimes said. "I haven't heard from you today. What do you have?"

"No traces of activity for the past few days," Carrot said. "The pamphlets keep showing up. First, they were just occasionally available after the temple attacks; now they seem to be spiraling out of control. It's like someone has set up a private challenge to people to write more about their mythology. Constable Visit says that it's interesting, and he doesn't think it's Omnian. There's an open encouragement for readers to write their own adventures and ideas for their god, if god we can call him. No Omnian leader would suggest that. It almost seems as though the common people are being asked to willfully contribute to the creation of a mythology."

"What is it, exactly, that is in these pamphlets?" Harry asked.

"Here, have one," said Carrot, handing him _Lord Voldemort and the Super-Heated Beaker, by Rocky Silverarm._

Harry's eyes widened at the title, and turned the page.

"I was almost sure it was a dwarf at first, from the name 'Silverarm,'" Carrot said. "But I don't think so, now. The writing style seems too … _off_. And then I thought it might be a troll with cold-thinking availability attempting to pull off a dwarf writing style, but I don't think that's it, either."

"The name is probably just another alias," Vimes said.

Harry's eyes widened as he traced down the words. _No, it can't be …_ he thought, but then he read further.

"Well, possibly," Carrot said. He had never liked it when people didn't use their own names.

By now, Harry was reading through at a pace which would have made Hermione Granger proud. Smoke was now openly billowing over his head and Angua was motioning at the rest of the room. Glass began to cascade as windows down the hall shattered.

Carrot carefully walked over to Harry and snatched the pamphlet out of his hands. Harry didn't need to look at it any more, but stared at Carrot in wild surprise.

"What is it, Harry?" the Captain asked in a tone that brooked no compromise.

"That (EXPLETIVE DELETED) son of a (EXPLETIVE DELETED) stupid (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE DELETED) whinging (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE DELETED) (EXPLETIVE DELETED)!" Harry screeched. The windows had stopped breaking, but clearly Harry was still throwing off dangerous magic vibes.

"Such language in a high-class establishment such as this one," Angua said quietly, much amused. "Please, not the Y-word or the K-word. Care to try that again?"

"That mother fu-" Harry began.

Commander Vimes held up his hand. Harry caught his eyes. "Calm down, lad. Take a deep breath, first."

Harry complied. The magic field seemed to lessen a bit. "Why didn't I see this earlier?" Harry demanded. "I now know _exactly_ the _one _person who's responsible for all of this."

"Ok," Vimes said. "Think you can explain it without killing all of us?"

"Pettigrew," the word was ripped from Harry's throat as a guttural snarl.

"Petticoats?" asked Carrot, looking at Angua.

"Not discussing that here," she muttered under her breath.

"Pettigrew. Peter F-ing Pettigrew," Harry snarled. "Also known as Wormtail. He's an animagus, a rare kind of wizard on my world who can change into the form of an animal. In Pettigrew's case, his form is very appropriately a rat."

"And you're sure it's him?" Vimes asked.

"Damn sure," Harry said. "Several reasons. One, the name on the pamphlet. Rocky Silverarm. Rocky is another word for Peter in my world," he began. _Thank heavens for those Biblical Latin classes Aunt Petunia forced me to take._ "Secondly. Pettigrew's hand was severed in … an accident," he said. "It was replaced with one of silver, so that if he happened to encounter one of his mortal enemies, who is a werewolf," and here he glanced at Angua, "that is to say, my uncle, then he would have a line of defence."

Harry took another long, calming breath. "Pettigrew was one of Voldemort – who is also known as Tom Riddle – one of his closest followers. After I defeated Voldemort, Pettigrew escaped. He's been wanted but at large for more than five years. We've come close a few times, but never caught him. Now I see why."

"So this Pettigrew is here, now," Vimes said. "And the stories about Voldemort? This ties into what you were dealing with earlier?"

"I think so," Harry said quietly. "I suspect that by generating stories about Voldemort, Wormtail is attempting to develop belief in him here on the Discworld. But this seems a completely new talent. I don't think Pettigrew could have done the story-writing alone."

"Hired a ghost, you think?" Vimes asked.

"I'm sure he didn't, sir," Carrot said. "Their ectoplasmic fingers would drift right through the quills."

Vimes looked at his senior Watchman sharply then back at Harry. "Where would you get stories from, then?" he asked.

Harry flipped open his PDA. "Rincewind," he said tersely. The imp took one look at his eyes and knew it wasn't a good time for a snappy comeback, not if he wanted to stay in one piece.

Seconds later came the disembodied voice. "Harry? Is that you?" asked the assistant librarian.

"Rincewind, I need you to check on the library and all surrounding literature sources for any increase in writing on Lord Voldemort over the past five years," Harry said. "If you don't know how our library works, I strongly encourage you to ask Hermione, as I think she can find anything in there in less than one minute."

"Right, anything on Voldemort," Rincewind said. "And that has some relevance your end? Hex has been feeding me some of the information on the belief patterns, and I think I can map the glamour here soon and decipher the thaumic sig-"

"That's irrelevant now," Harry said. "We know _who_ we're dealing with, just not _what_. Find out about the stories. That's got to become top priority. Let Hermione know it's Peter Pettigrew that's made his way to the Disc."

"Pettigrew on the Disc, stories about Voldemort, got it," Rincewind said. "If you don't mind, I'll ring off now."

"Potter out," Harry said, closing the PDA so fast that the imp inside muttered out curses at him.

The rest of the room had been observing the conversation in disbelief. Public conversations using PDAs was _not _normal practice.

"Er, sorry," Harry said.

"What was that?" Vimes demanded.

"Um … it's … uh … a PDA," he said lamely. _Uh-oh, I'm in for it now,_ he thought. _I shouldn't have let them see advanced wizarding technology._

"How does it work?" Carrot asked. "It seems faster than a clacks!"

"A clacks … right … what's a clacks?" Harry asked.

"This is going to take a little while," Littlebottom said.

"Time … is not currently one of my problems," Harry said, easing back in his chair.

…

Three hours had gone by on Roundworld before Hermione Granger could take off enough time to get to Hogwarts. She stepped through the floo, and seeing that the portrait of Albus Dumbledore was empty, she stepped quickly through McGonagall's office to head to the library.

A few seconds on either side, she would have managed not to get intercepted.

"Ms. … Hermione … Granger," came a well-remembered voice.

"Er, yes, Professor Vector," she called out, and turned around.

"Where is this wizard from Discworld?" Vector demanded. "I have gone to such links in attempting to draw him into conversation that I went to the lengths of wearing a strapless dress to dinner twice in a row and placing myself directly in his field of vision. The man disappears after every meal and is unfindable. I trust _you _however know where he is."

The thought of her former Arithmancy professor in a strapless dress was more powerful than virtually any of the Unforgivable spells Hermione had been subject to during the capture of Voldemort. "Ah-" she began.

"I know you're going to see him," Vector continued. "I insist upon accompanying you."

"Professor Vector, this really isn't the best time," Hermione began.

"Hermione! The man has been here for nearly two weeks, and we have barely spoken a word! There is so much for us to dicuss!" Vector pressed. Hermione's fingers itched slowly down towards her wand, which she had carried in a concealed side holster for six years. Harry had bought them, custom-made, for her Ron as they had helped him – such as they could – with the little matter of Voldemort's horcruxes.

"Oh, well," Hermione stammered, buying a few precious seconds.

"Good. Where is he," Vector said, tapping her foot, triumphantly.

"I really _had_ thought these days were over," Hermione said to herself. The wand snapped into position so fast Vector never saw it. "_Petrificus Totalus!_"

The spell hit the arithmancy professor squarely between the eyes. She became as merely a block of stone, foot pausing in mid-tap.

"Oh, oh oh … Professor Vector, I am _so_ sorry. I'm sure this would be worth a month's worth of detention, if not more, probation, certainly, though not necessarily expulsion," Hermione said. "But, er, I am no longer a student here, so I suppose that won't matter so much. I apologize again, and I will tell him to talk with you some, but right now, I _have_ to help Harry," Hermione finished.

She used a quick Disillusionment charm on herself, and then dashed to the library unimpeded. Making her way to the charmed door, she quickly opened with no difficulty, now knowing it was there. "Professor Rincewind?"

He slowly looked up from under the table. "Hermione?"

"Yes, what are you doing under the table?" she asked.

"I, er, dropped my quill just now," Rincewind said. He stood up, and picked it up off the table. "Here it is, silly me."

"Yes, fine, there's no time for that now, Professor," Hermione said. "We have to help Harry. Tell me again about what he said."

"Certain stories have turned up on Discworld, in pamphlet form, that appear to have been privately printed using a stolen printing press," Rincewind said. "The stories concern one Lord Voldemort."

"Voldemort," Hermione whispered.

"I take it you know him," Rincewind said.

"He's Harry's arch-enemy … he killed Harry's parents when Harry was still a baby. Later, he killed Harry's stepfather, his friends … everyone Harry knew. He was one of the most powerful wizards of the last 100 years," Hermione said.

"And I am helping you with this?" Rincewind said. "I think not. I can get Hex to get me on a beach in Australia 190 years ago in less than 10 seconds. So, it's been a pleasure," he began.

Hermione's fingers were on the wizzard's throat before he could even blink. "We will _not_ abandon Harry," she said in a voice that left no uncertainty about how the universe was going to exist hereafter. "Er … right," Rincewind said. "Would you let me breathe at least?" The grip loosened imperceptibly.

"So what are we going to do?" Rincewind managed when he figured that he could speak again.

"You tell me," Hermione said evenly. "You called me, remember."

"Harry said that we should check for any stories concerning Lord Volemort," Rincewind minced out.

"Sit up. Slowly. If you try to move too quickly, I'm going to have Dobby put an anti-disapparation charm on your leg that will splinch you in half if you try to leave," Hermione said.

Rincewind didn't know what _splinch_ meant, but he was pretty sure that it wasn't pleasant. He took a deep sigh. "I can get the Librarian to use L-Space to search for works on this Voldemort," he said.

"Right. Do it," Hermione said, flatly. Mentally, she began to compose a fairly intricate search-and-replace sell, based on a bubble-sort algorithm.

Rincewind sighed and looked at the crystal ball. "Well?" he said.

There was a pause.

After a few seconds, the sound "Ook?" came through.

"We need to check L-space for stories on a … Lord Voldemort," Rincewind said, looking at Hermione sadly.

"_Ook_?"

"It might mean the end of both Roundworld and Discworld," Rincewind said.

"Ook!"

"Yes, well, we can wait," Rincewind said calmly.

"Your librarian is … not very verbal?" Hermione said.

"He's an orangutan," Rincewind said, calmly. He hoped he projected some menace, but in his heart knew he projected only spinelessness. "Excellent librarian."

"I … see," Hermione said, quietly. She completed the spell in her mind. Quietly drawing her wand, she uttered _verbosity maxima actua_.

Books slowly filed through the doorway onto the table. After a few seconds, they glowed brightly and then sat. Hermione looked carefully. There were a total of five tomes.

"Nothing new has been written in the last year," she said. "We'd have it. Here's the revised edition of _Hogwarts: A History,_ which includes a full chapter on Harry and Voldemort. This is _Dark Wizards Discovered_, published two years ago. Has a few things on Voldemort, Grindelwald, Azarath, and a few other naughty boys. The other three … they're all pretty old," she said.

"Ook!"

"Indeed?" asked Rincewind.

"Ook!"

"Oh, very well. I'll deal with it. Thanks so much," Rincewind said.

Hermione looked at him expectantly.

"He's says there's something called … the internet?"

…

Floo travel was new to Rincewind, but that didn't mean he was adding it to the means that he enjoyed traveling. In fact, truth be told, Rincewind hated all forms of travel. Travel meant you were going places, and if there was any wizzard who wanted nothing more than to be hidden under thick blankets as the world passed him by, it was Rincewind.

"Can I get you something?" Hermione asked. "I think I'll open a bottle of wine, if it's all the same to you."

Rincewind decided not to prod Fate. Too often, Fate prodded back. With a sharper stick. "Whatever you decide," he said.

They were in the apartment she shared with Harry in the Docklands. The computer was booting up. Hex had seemed extremely interested in the process.

"Right, this our PC," Hermione said. "It seems to work sort of like Hex works. The internet … is sort of like a way to connect every person who has a computer. You can share whatever information you want."

Rincewind was concentrating on what Harry had told him.

"Like stories," he said.

"Right," Hermione said. "There are several sites on the web … sorry, there are several sort of virtual libraries where people can simply write and store stories. Anyone who wants can write them and read them."

Rincewind's mind boggled. "You mean … _anyone_ can do this?" He was truly scared. _Good thing their universe doesn't have Deitygen, _he decided.

"Pretty much," Hermione said. "Now, there aren't many wizards who have computers. Very few. Most of them ignore muggle – that's what they call non-wizards – technology. But some have them. They often try to integrate the two, often with pretty disastrous results. And Harry or I end up putting out the fire."

She didn't elaborate. At least Fred and George had finally figured out how to use computers, and kept the secret well-hidden from their father. _Merlin knows what he would do with them_, Hermione mused.

"Right, so these people that write the stories, they know about Voldemort?" Rincewind asked.

"Well, a few do," Hermione said. "Harry tends to be the more popular character. There's a few thousand stories out there. Maybe a few more. I tend to … skip … the ones that have Harry … um …"

Rincewind didn't need Hermione to elaborate; he had been to Fourecks, after all.

"Completely understood," he said. "How many are there involving Harry and Voldemort, or just Voldemort?"

"Well, I check every six months or so," Hermione said. "Harry refuses to look at it or see any of it. I think he's a bit embarrassed or angered by it all. But last I checked, you see here, there's a little counter, there were about 1,100 stories in total. So I'll just update real quick …"

Hermione's fingers clicked things that went click. The screen changed. Rincewind noted the changes. He also noted that Hermione had gasped and was as white as the screen.

"I take it that was not what you expected?"

Hermione did not answer. She was nearly catatonic.

Rincewind tapped his crystal ball. "Hex?"

"Yes?"

He read the screen carefully. "Please inform Mr. Potter that, in the past six months, there have been … 215,463 stories written about Voldemort on the Internet. At least some of them have appear to have been ported to Discworld."

There was a pause.

"I will relay the message at a period of convenience," Hex replied. "Mr. Potter is on the move."

"On the move? Where to?" Rincewind said.

"The General Pull-thaumic Signals tracking device built into his PDA indicates that he is on the road to Lancre," Hex said. "He is almost certainly with other members of the Watch. It would not do for the Watch to discover the existence of a GPS-coded Potter Discworld Adjustator."

"Very well," Rincewind sighed. He looked at Hermione, whose eyes were still the size of dinner plates from staring at the screen.

"I'm returning to Hogwarts," he said. "If I require Ms. Granger, we'll contact her at that time. I think she might need some time … alone."

Rincewind had been instructed on the workings of floo by Hermione, and he seized some powder sitting on the mantle and flooed himself out.

Hermione sat, her mind trying to comprehend what was happening. _No … no, we defeated you, you spooky bastard. I will not … _not _…_ NOT_ let you hurt Harry, ever again …_


	17. A Stab in the Dark

**A/N The disclaimer remains in the chapter one. The Harry Potter: GOF film opened this weekend; should I be excited or alarmed that I look forward to seeing it so? I won't update before Thanksgiving, so a happy holiday to all my fellow Americans out there. As I break the wishbone, I can only dream that the Hogwarts crew could wave their wands over the Gulf Coast …**

**A STAB IN THE DARK**

The delay wasn't as long as Harry thought, although it did take longer than they expected to get the horses.

"I told Mr. Hobson myself," Carrot said. "I'm sure he wouldn't make a mistake about it. He's giving us the most choice horses he has."

Harry had let that one pass.

They had ridden out of the city gate and were now well on the road to Lancre. They had discussed going by broomstick, which Harry was in favor of, but this was vetoed by Carrot and Angua, with support from Vimes.

"Ridden a broomstick," he said. "When Angua and I were on campaign against Borogravia. You freeze to death on the dam' things. If I never touch one again in my life, it'll be too soon."

Harry had tried to explain warming charms and using a simple shield to cut down on wind shear, but he was still outvoted. "You've ridden a horse before, I take it?" Carrot asked. Harry thought about thestrals, and finally said 'yes.' "Okay, then that's settled," Carrot said to him tersely.

And it was.

They had packed up a large amount of provisions and water, a few simple changes of clothing, and had a letter from the Patrician's office for the King of Lancre. The horses hadn't seemed quite like thoroughbreds to Harry, but Carrot explained they were looking for good walkers, not runners. "We'll try to do between 25 and 40 miles a day, let the animals forage, and rest," he said. "There's a lot of travel. If we can keep up that pace, if the weather is good, then we'll make it to Lancre in fortnight."

Not for the last time, Harry wished he had a plane, train or automobile on the Disc. "We'd be there in a few hours," he grumbled quietly to himself. However, each of those presumed an internal combustion engine, and hydrocarbons. From what he had learned about Uberwald, it seemed that animals decayed into fat, which was sort of a heat source, but not certainly something you were going to fill up a tank with. "Ten barrels of 240 _avoirdupois_, please, we're trying to get to Genua by Grunesday," didn't exactly roll off the tongue. But it wasn't the time to discuss the state of the technological art on the Disc. So he saddled up, and after a few weary hours, realized how sore his back was going to be that afternoon.

As they made camp, Harry thought Carrot looked – well, insanely happy, like always. "Isn't it fun, camping out under the stars?" he asked.

Harry was thinking back to the last time he had camped out. He, Ron and Hermione had crammed together, freezing, on a rainy night in January in Yorkshire. It was bitterly cold, and the trio was weary with fatigue and stress. That had been on the campaign against Voldemort, hiding out while they had destroyed two of the last of the Horcruxes, setting up Harry's final battle with the evil wizard.

"The last time I was in a tent, I was on the march against Voldemort," he finally said, quietly. "It was one of the worst experiences in the series of unfortunate events that has made up my life."

Angua looked at him with large brown eyes, which reminded him of another pair of brown eyes, somewhere … far away.

"I was a bit tall for the caves when I started to grow," Carrot said. "I spent a lot of time out, looking at the stars. I've always enjoyed it, ever since I was a kid."

Angua tried to help. "Did you go camping a lot when you were a kid, Harry?"

Harry looked into the fire. "As a kid I was locked in a closet under the stairs by my stepparents," he said tonelessly. "I was only let out when I went to school, and locked in most days and nights. When they went on vacation, they fed me through a cat-flap in the door."

There was a long pause, and Harry finally felt he couldn't let his friends – for so now he felt them – to be that uncomfortable. "Look, there's a saying we have back home, what doesn't kill you, only makes you stronger," Harry said. "I'd like to think that I've made it through, and I'm a better person for it. Don't you have an expression like that?"

"I believe so," Carrot said. "In Dwarvish the expression is, _F'nfalf ntig sogla nstd ayd fnal_. That means, 'what doesn't kill you causes permanent incapacitation.'"

Angua just barely suppressed a chuckle.

"Let's get our minds back on our problem," Carrot said. He erected a cooking spit over the fire and hung a pot on it to cook a stew. "You think this evil wizard, Lord Voldemort, is here now. How can we stop him?"

"When Voldemort last was in power, he used Horcruxes to splinter his soul, so that he became close to immortal," Harry said. "I'm sure – very sure – that I destroyed them all. I can't think of one that I missed, or how he got one here."

Carrot had been quiet. "So he used … what, little sausages and … crude-thingies to do the trick?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"You know, little things on a stick, meat balls? Isn't that a Horcrux?" Carrot said.

Angua rolled her eyes. "I think you mean an hors d'oeuvre, which would normally be a newly-hatched chick or perhaps a thin squirrel …" her voice trailed off and she realized her men were boring their eyes at her. "Sorry. Wolf thing. I think I'm going for a stroll. I'll be back by the time dinner's ready." She strolled nonchalantly to the edge of the campsite, behind the tents, and after a few minutes the sound of prancing feet could be heard.

"Um, right, a Horcrux means something 'outside the cross,'" Harry explained. "In this case, the cross is a man standing with his arms outstretched. So outside the cross means outside your own person. It refers to the act of removing your soul."

Carrot looked squeamish, the first time Harry had known him to be so. "He put his _soul_ outside of his own _body_?"

"That's right," Harry said. "He split his soul into seven fragments, storing them in common, ordinary items. A book. A cup. A locket. Other things, even living animals – one was a snake. They were known as horcruxes. Even if his body was then destroyed, the soul that remained in the horcrux would call him back into being. Before I was able to destroy him, I had to destroy all of the remaining horcruxes, so that he couldn't regenerate himself."

Carrot absorbed this and added some more water to the pot.

"And how did he do it? Get his soul outside of his body, I mean," Carrot asked.

"By committing murder," Harry said quietly. "He sacrificed innocent people, often quite brutally, just for his own pleasure and prolonged life."

Harry did not fail to notice the look forming on Carrot's face. _Yes, you hate it just as much as I do,_ he thought. _The thought that an innocent person might be killed for someone else's profit, that thought drives you mad. Good. It drives _me_, too._

Finally Carrot spoke. "And you really think he's coming here, then," he said tonelessly.

"Yes, I do."

"Well, we're going to give him one lively reception," Carrot said. The edge was there, then, Harry could see. Carrot had a streak as sharp as his blade. But as quickly as it appeared it faded.

"Pull the stew onto a trivet, please, Harry," Carrot said. "I'm going to pour off some of the skin of wine, and by then Angua will be back."

In fact, she was back earlier, she hadn't even gone too far from the campsite, although she did eat her _lapin tartare_ hors d'oeuvre in piece. Angua may not have eavesdropped completely on purpose, but she was all ears when it came to hearing what their enemy could do. She had shuddered to hear about the horcruxes. And the steel that came out of Carrot's voice when he was like that … it was pure _g'narl_. (Wolf.)

Times like this, Carrot made Angua's tongue pant like, well, a wolf. She knew that they wouldn't want to talk about horcruxes over dinner, and when she came back, quietly to the campsite, they seemed peaceful enough to eat dinner silently, like the old campaigners they all in fact were.

As the stars came out, Carrot made one final comment for the evening. "When I went to Cori Celesti, with Rincewind, we saw all the stars," Carrot said wistfully looking at them. They're supposed to all have stories about them. What do you think the stories in the pamphlets mean?"

"That, I don't know yet," Harry said. "Hermione told me that there were thousands of them, now. But I can't figure it out, how they were being used, how they were even being made."

"Can Hermione read those stories?" Angua asked.

"Sure, no problem," Harry said.

"So perhaps she could write one and see what happens?" she continued.

"That's a brilliant idea!" Harry said. "If you'll excuse me …"

He had learned the hard way that having his PDA was of great interest – perhaps too much interest – to the Watch. They had spent four hours arguing about it, before Vimes finally said that it was Harry's business and they weren't to interfere with it. As a result, he intended to use the PDA more subtly now. He had a tent of his own, and Carrot and Angua were sharing a tent. He slipped inside his own tent, and Carrot and Angua quietly retreated to the privacy of their own.

Once inside, Harry flipped open the PDA. The imp, was by now used to Harry's ill-treatment, didn't even glare. "Who?" it demanded.

"Hermione Granger," Harry said. The usual short amount of time passed.

"No answer," the imp said.

"What?" Harry asked. _I know she's got voicemail._

"No answer," the imp said. "You can try later."

Harry was dissatisfied, but he let it go. He opened the flap of his tent and looked at the stars. _Every one had a story_, he thought. For a long time, green eyes reached up, seeking their guidance. He finally closed his flap and found he could sleep quite fitfully.

…

Wagon wheels woke the wizard.

He dashed out of his tent, truncheon in hand. There were dozens of push carts, in the pre-dawn mist, headed into Ankh-Morpork, usually led by a peasant. Heaped with vegetables, timber, and other supplies, they made up the supporting infrastructure for the city-state.

"Hey, you, can't you watch where you're goin'!"

This from a man who was leading a gaggle of geese. "Honk, honk!"

Carrot was stirring the embers back into a fit fire, and had a pot of water on the boil. "Ah, good morning Harry, yes, it's the morning rush hour," he said.

"Ah," said Harry, and walked some distance to a convenient tree, which he stared at intently for some moments.

Carrot had placed ground coffee beans into the top of a pot, and was boiling the water from the bottom to make a thick, syrupy coffee. Just the _smell_ of it was enticing Harry.

"Sorry, it's not proper Watch coffee," Carrot said. "Can't afford to bring mud from the Ankh with us. I'm afraid this will have to do," he said as he poured out Harry a cup.

Harry took a sip. He thought, quite possibly, it was the best coffee he had ever tasted.

"You always do that in the morning?" Angua said, politely, as she struggled towards the coffee.

"Have coffee? Yes," Harry said.

"Er, no, what you did on the tree," Angua said. Harry reddened. "Um…"

"No, I don't mean you take a piss, we all do that," she said impatiently. "I mean do you always glow yellow?"

Harry looked down at his PDA.

"Excuse me, folks," he said, retreating into his tent.

"Hello?" he said, opening the imp's hinge.

"Harry? It's me, love," came a well-remembered voice.

"Hey. I called last night," he said.

"Figured," she said. "I went out to eat with mum and I turned the phone off. You know how we hate hearing them go off in restaurants, and I guess I forgot to switch it back on."

"That's okay," he said. It was. He could almost smell her … but he focused on his mission. "Have you had a look at the pamphlets?"

"Yes, Rincewind got me some of the pamphlets, they're word-for-word off the internet,"  
Hermione said.

"So they are going from the Discworld to the internet, now?" Harry asked.

"No, I think I know what happened, now," Hermione said. "This site is basically designed as a site where amateur writers can post stories that they have written about well-known people. Mostly the people write what-if stories known as alternate universes. For example, they have stories about Napoleon, but he wins at Waterloo, or stories about the Roman empire, they never fall, you get the idea."

Harry mused. "Sure. It's basically just people playing with 'what-if' questions. That seems so harmless."

"Right, exactly," Hermione said. "And there are a lot about you, Harry."

"Okay, like, what if I didn't defeat Voldemort?"

"Well, some of those are quite recent, but yes, those as well as others."

Harry thought. "So if those are recent … what was earlier?"

Hermione hesitated. "Umm … mainly stories about you and the writers becoming romantically involved. I'm willing to bet that at least a dozen of the stories I've read are by Ginevra Weasley."

There was a long pause.

"Are you there?"

"I know Ginny took it really hard," Harry said. "But I just can't even imagine us together now. She … will always be an important leaf on my tree. But you're the blossom of it."

Another pause. "I love you, too," Hermione said. There was more than a hint of a tear in the voice.

"Anything else?" Harry asked.

"Well, a few have you linked romantically with Draco Malfoy."

Even through the long-distance, Hermione could hear Harry cough up would could only be a cup off coffee. "I … _really_ … did not want to know that," he said slowly.

"I know, but you need to understand how this process works, I think. So the stories are pretty crude and amateurish at first. Gradually they become longer, more complicated. Some of them are actually so well written that I think the writers could profitably sell these plot ideas.

"Then, about nine months ago, there's a new account opened and some new stories. Guess who by," Hermione finished.

"Oh, let me guess. Rocky Silverarm," he said evenly.

"Correct. Rocky Silverarm," Hermione replied. "Who you still think is Pettigrew."

"I _know_ it's Wormtail, blast it," Harry said hotly.

"Right, okay, just listen," Hermione said. "He posts five or six stories. They seem to be basically you and Voldemort, from Voldemort's point of view. Very Grendelish."

"What's that last word?"

"Grendel-ish. Like Grendel. You know?" Hermione said.

"No. Imagine I'm not an amazingly voracious bookworm, and try to explain it to me," Harry said.

There was an audibly exasperated sigh. "Okay, Harry, you've heard of the epic of Beowulf."

"Right, it's some kind of old story, right?" he asked.

Again the exasperation. "Yes, Harry, the epic of Beowulf is a saga in poetic form, Scandinavian in origin, compiled in the 9th and 10th centuries, in which the hero, Beowulf, goes through a number of trials and …"

"And this has what to do with Wormtail?" Harry interjected.

"Be patient and pay attention," Hermione snapped back. "Among the first tasks Beowulf has to do is to slay a monster called Grendel. It's a very stirring passage, and many people read it."

"Okay," said Harry, trying to keep patient.

"So not too many years ago, an American writer wrote a story called Grendel, which is basically the monster's point of view. I mean, from the Beowulf epic, all we know is that Grendel is some kind of horrible monster. But in his story, Grendel is a tragic figure; he doesn't want to be a monster but is forced to by circumstances, and that's what Silverarm's done. He's written about your struggle against Voldemort as if Voldemort was a victim, he had no choices, and you are a monster for denying him free will."

Harry was silent for a long moment. In his mind, he was in Dumbledore's office, discussing with the headmaster things they had seen together in a pensieve.

"Are you there?"

"Yes, I understand," Harry said. "So what happened next?"

"See, that's just the point about the stories, Harry. People wanted to know what happened next. So Rocky Silverarm basically leaves a challenge up to people to fill in the gaps of the story. And people did, at first slowly, but increasingly, I think people see it as a challenge, or they are writing for other purposes and just borrow some ideas."

Harry's mind was moving lots of directions. This lead had a lot of potential, but he would need Hermione to follow it up.

"Hermione, will you do something for me, please?" he asked.

"Anything, Harry, you know that. What?" she asked.

"I want you to write a story and add it to the list, and see what happens," he said.

"Harry – I can't do that – I mean –" she stammered.

"You can, Hermione. You'll be great at it. Just think you're back at Hogwarts, and it's an essay. You're great at this kind of thing. I have to go – we're breaking camp and we have a long march today to Lancre. Please, Hermione. Just take a stab at it and let me know what happens. This is a big lead, and we haven't had a lot to go on so far," he said.

"Very well, I'll do it," she said. "Be careful. I love you."

"Back at you, babe. I've got to go. Bye."

Hermione stretched up. Being Saturday she hadn't even changed out of her bed clothes. She absently picked up a parchment, and scribbled a quick line on it. The title read, "Harry Potter and the …"

She stopped for a minute, frowned, and stared at her computer screen. Virtually all of the titles she had searched on this thread had "Lord Voldemort" in the title.

Hermione took her parchment and an inkwell sat down in front of their fireplace. She thought nothing so much as though she were back in the Gryffindor Common Room. Briefly Hermione stared out at the Thames going by. She pulled her quill out, trimmed its nib absently, scratched out the lines at the top and replaced it on the parchment with a new title.

"Lord Voldemort and the Trouble with Harry Potter," she wrote.

The Thames kept flowing. People walked in front of the apartment blocks, headed to the pub, headed home, and finally – if they were still on the street staggering out of the pub when Hermione was finished – headed most likely to central lock-up.

She stood and stretched. The parchment flowed eight feet down at her feet. Hermione knew she was no Jane Austen, but she felt she was better than Gilderoy Lockhart, too. She had tried to place subtle humor in her story, which ended with Harry Potter defeating Lord Voldemort in a full-contact game of Quidditch, and Lord Voldemort vowing to reform and spend the rest of his days serving humanity.

The manuscript was roughly 90,000 words. Had Hermione been a Muggle, of course, she would dread the thought of transcribing all of it. But she wasn't a Muggle. Two waves of the wand later, and she was looking at her text on the word processor. Herminone corrected a few spelling errors that always seemed to crop up, and then looked at the site again. She quickly registered and set up an account, choosing an innocuous sounding author name, "BushyBrownBabe."

After a few cursory looks at some other fics on the site, she finally decided how she would post her story, cutting it into a few chapters first.

_And that's that_, she thought. _I'll check and see what happens tomorrow. Guess I'll head back to bed, but it won't hurt to check e-mail quickly._

Ding. "You have 132 unread e-mails."

_What in the name of Merlin?_ she thought. _Hmm …each one is a response to my story! But … no one, even with magic can read that fast!_

She quickly waved her wand. A cup of black coffee appeared. She took a long swig.

Computer science wasn't exactly Hermione's expertise, but when she first was given a computer she had approached learning about it with her usual veracity.

"Let's see … the site is hosted by a site in Sussex. Seems fine, probably legit. There are thousands of threads and millions of stories," she began to talk to herself

"Let me try to re-post the story into a different area totally … Charles Dickens, say."

A few seconds went by. The same exact response happened – 132 e-mails were generated.

"I don't think any of you exist," she said clicking on _LORDV4EVAH_. "I think you're a bot …"

…

It was no strange thing for Hermione Granger to be walking down the street of Diagon Alley on a Sunday, near Flourish and Botts, but for her to not even look at the new offerings in the bookshop and head straight for Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes was undoubtedly unusual.

She walked in and made eye contact with George Weasley, who was trying to explain to what appeared to be a group of third-years how you could smuggle in prohibited items to Hogwarts. His grin froze as soon as he saw Hermione in the doorway. She sighed and made a cup of her first, palm down, at the floor.

It was a secret hand signal that they had devised in the Order of the Phoenix. George didn't even break patter, but kept up his salesman's bark as he slowly backed towards the counter. His eyes led Hermione around the room and to the Employees Only door.

There were two dozen various curses and hexes on it. She walked in, with her hair remaining and clothing intact. Fred Weasley sat inside, watching her come in. "What's with the signal, sister?" he demanded. "The order's on hiatus. You-Know-Who is You-Know-Where."

She glared. "I think he's back and trying to get Harry. I need your help."

The joy and mirth left his face. "What?" he said simply.

"Somehow, someone is creating stories on an internet website about Harry and Voldemort," she said. "Please don't ask me how I found out, or where Harry is, Fred. It's on a need-to-know basis.

"Yesterday, I wrote a story myself, and got feedback in an unusually short time. I believe that someone has created a series of bots that respond to certain key words, and uses a quasi-fuzzy logic algorithm to generate the responses. But I'm not sure. I need to prove it."

Fred nodded. He had already withdrawn inside to the desk, where his massive CPU was set up. "You want someone to hack it," he said, quietly.

Hermione nodded. "Can that squib friend of yours do it?"

"Oh, he can do it, no problem," Fred said. "But if you want it fast, it'll cost us."

Hermione had expected this. Her hand reached under her jacket, removed a bag, and placed it on the desk. "Tell him I'm offering 500 galleons upfront, and another 500 if I get an answer tonight," she said.

"A _thousand_ galleons?" Fred looked dumbstruck. "Merlin, Hermione, do you know how much that is? I mean he'd charge 200 at the most-"

She was making her way out. Without a backwards glance, she replied, "Then impress upon him how fast we want this. And discreet, Fred. Very discreet."

…

They were sitting in a coffee shop near Leicester Square.

"Right, this is what I think happened," the man who would only respond to the name 'Tanner' said. "Your boy opens the account, and probably has a few stories already ready-to-go. Maybe he's had someone ghost them for him, maybe not. Regardless, these stories" and a finger traced a set of blue lines on an extremely large printout "were the originals. Four stories. The fifth is the same as story number 3, but with minor character names changed."

Tanner sipped his mocha frappuchino.

"Okay, then he started getting some reviews and responses. Some are critical, some supportive. He then suggests people take ownership of the ideas and try to better his ideas. I can see these six new stories – by four different writers – then pop up. We can trace the time on those, very easy.

"Now this was the sophisticated bit. He seems to have established let's say 20 spoofing addresses and accounts. They all call the same IP address. Same as if he was going to do a major phishing expedition."

"Um, why do you need a computer to go fishing?" Fred asked. Although he was used to using computers, he was still relatively unsophisticated when it came to the minutiae of the muggle electronic world.

Tanner gave him a look. "P H I S H I N G, Fred, is a practice of using false names to obtain compromising information from stupid idiots that use computers and don't have any common sense, like promising that they can send them money or products for absurdly low costs."

"But, that happens! I mean, this very nice bloke in Nigeria has been telling me that he can send me," Fred stopped as he saw the looks on Hermione and Tanner's faces. "He can't, you mean?"

"Right, because I got overpaid on this, I'll stop by your office and clear out the spyware which is so clearly on your machine, Fred," Tanner said, sipping his coffee. "You'll owe one to the lady."

"We owe her and her old man so much we can't repay it," Fred said, fuming.

"Let's stick to what happened, please," Hermione said.

"Right," Tanner said. "So he runs this pseudo-phishing scam. Every time a story gets posted with Voldemort in the title, one of his false name accounts generates a review. It seems to be a random chance who gets to review it first, but after there is one review, it generates a search for a second review. You've noticed, no doubt, that virtually all of the reviews are statically alike. You could probably call everyone's attention to the reality that they are spambots by putting dummy text in your story, and the keywords that the spambots are searching for.

"Now, the people that write on this site, from what I can gather, like the attention and the reviews. So when they see that these stories are generating a lot of reviews, they decided to write stories in the genre," Tanner said. "A lot of the stories seem genuine, to the extent that someone read some of the old ones and really decided to write a new one. I don't think they can guess that the reviewers are fake. After a while, the threads just took life of their own. But – and this is the important bit – the IP address dies a few months back. The new stuff is all being generated by new writers, and the initial hacker seems to have dropped out long ago."

"Yes," Hermione mused. "Because by then, he had gotten what he was after. He knew his own stories weren't very good, he wanted to get some good ones written for him. And once he had enough, it didn't matter if the threads perpetuated or not."

She looked at the pamphlets she had, and then at the tracing printout. "So these stories here?" she pointed.

"All done by different IP addresses. I think they're new, not from your initial source," Tanner said. "I'm going to go the bathroom, excuse me."

Hermione looked at Fred. "You'll take him back to your office and he'll fix whatever is on your computer. You are then going to _obliviate_ his memory of this. He can remember he fixed your computer and you paid him a ton of money for helping you avoid a Nigerian e-mail scandal. Okay?"

Fred nodded slowly. "Okay."

"I'm off to speak with Harry," she said. "Expect us when you see us."

…

It was a different campground, but Harry was waiting for the phone call.

"So either he must have learned a few things about programming, because he created a bot to monitor new posts on the thread and automatically reply with some built-in advice for writers, or he had someone do the program. I can tell, after looking at enough of them, that it's just scanning for certain words and using a quasi-fuzzy response system. The programming isn't very hard; I could do it in a few days. But I doubt he knew enough; I guess he hired someone to do the programming, maybe _obliviating_ their memory or … something … afterwards," Hermione said.

Harry had absorbed all this for some time. "Well, I concur. I think he needed the stories, and they end up here," he said.

"So far as I can tell on what has been printed, he was taking the best ones he could find at the time. Now there are some recent posts up here that are great stories, actually, even if you accept that the reality is skewed. But I haven't seen them turn up in pamphlet form yet, so either he's way behind on his internet reading, or maybe he just took the best at a certain time and then left, whatever came afterwards was nice but no longer needed," she finished.

"Hermione, why didn't you become an Auror?" Harry asked. "You're so thorough … so capable … your analytical skills are way beyond mine. You'd be fantastic."

"Well, in my own way, I am," Hermione said, blushing a little. "We're both fighting evil in our own ways, Harry. For you the action and the evil wizards, for me the microbe, the disease and the magic. We both try to find out what's causing something bad to happen and then stop it. But I wouldn't ever want your job, Harry. You're a very good Auror, Harry, one of the best ever. I've never been totally happy with your career, I am always so worried that something will happen to you on a case, but I know you're good at it, and it's a necessary job, and I'll always support you."

The strength Harry drew from Hermione was palpable, at that point.

"So how is this going to help you?" she asked.

"I don't know, yet," Harry admitted. "Just another piece of the jigsaw. I'm going to turn in, now, it was another long day in the saddle. But we're getting closer. I'm feeling it. We're no longer just in the dark."

"Good night, sweet prince," she said.

"I love you too, Hermione. Good night," Harry said.


	18. A Walk Amongst the Tombstones

**A/N**

Um … disclaimer, that's the word I was looking for. Read chapter one, lads and ladies. It's all there. Y'all know.

I am sorry it's been so long since I've posted; New Orleans is just ... not an easy place to live right now, and my past includes a stint living in a remote Cambodia hovel working as a mine sweeper (not kidding). Being part of the rebuilding process here is taking up much more of my time and emotional commitment than I had ever suspected; at the end of many a 14-day I am too emotionally drained to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard), but I'm going to try and soldier back now. What's that thing that happens to you while you're busy making other plans?

I've had a few reviews/comments about my "Screwtape Letters" one-shot. Some didn't see the "implied slash" I mentioned in the description and thought I might have implied a Dudley-Harry plotline. To which I can only say, you people are sick, _sick_, **_sick_**. The implied slash is that Edward Dursley (my invention), who in my story is Venon's Death Eater older brother, abused Vernon. (Revisit Dudley saying 'dad would never go in for therapy.') It partially explains why Vernon is both (1) a complete and utter bastard and (2) hostile to the magic world. Perhaps I should add this in an A/N at the end of that story?

Finally, I've been reading some good stuff over at PortKey; I've never posted there, so if you think this story might find a home there as well, please send me an E if you've posted there before. Back to the story. If you've thought things were dragging a bit, I think you'll agree the action picks up here …

**A WALK AMONG THE TOMBSTONES**

_**NOW**_

"Haven't tried the Unforgivable Curses here, have you, Potter? They're _wickedly _powerful!" came the screaming, high-pitched voice of Peter Pettigrew. His army of loathsome, misshapen half-men were not fast, but proving plenty time-consuming for the Trio to put down.

Carrot's sword sliced through them like suet, but there were so many ...

Carrot remained at the vanguard as Angua, in werewolf form, tried to drag down Pettigrew. Harry stood beside Carrot, smashing into the inferi-like creatures with his mace and attempting to help propel them forward, toward the defiled altar.

Angua's snapping finally drew Pettigrew's attention. Pettigrew's metallic hand reached into a pouch at his waist and tossed a mix of gleaming dust at her, causing Angua to _whelp_ in dispair. "Snort silver dust, _bitch_," he snarled. "I'm just sorry I couldn't do that to my old _friend_ Remus," Pettigrew said, spitting. Wormtail kicked her in the snout, knocking her off the dais. The werewolf landed, half-human, in a pile below the altar and stayed ... too still.

"Angua!" Carrott cried. His sword described a near-blinding arc as he made the distance between himself and Pettigrew less than 10 feet. Harry was right behind him, and bashed in one of the man-grubs that had a clean shot at Carrot.

"It's been real fun, kiddies, but I have to go now," Pettigrew said. "You've set me back a bit, but no matter, a week or so, more or less, won't make a difference to the Dark Lord." Pettigrew whipped his wand out of an inner pocket and brandished it at them. "Noticed you forgot yours, Potter," he snapped. "Don't leave home without it!"

With a wave, a blinding flash of light stunned them, and a secondary spell struck the top of the temple. In the blink of an eye, Pettigrew was gone. Harry and Carrot looked up to see the marble ceiling collapse, crashing down upon them with uncountable tons of stone and earth.

_**THREE DAYS AGO**_

The march was into its 9th day. Harry was extremely tired of dried meat and fruit. They had caught some rabbits one day, with Angua herding them towards the camp, just for variety, but Harry would be very grateful when he could actually have a well-balanced meal again.

_And to think_, he mused, _how much I would like an Ephebe Salad now._

He thought briefly of Cherie Littlebottom. They had stayed in touch with Pseudopolis, for the most part, via the help of Corporal Buggy Squires, who was flying ahead on his buzzard. Buggy would stop on clacks towers at intervals, and if the clacks operators were a bit surprised to see a gnome with a badge, they hid it well. The mail and clacks flowed back and forth.

Overall, Vimes was having more success in Ankh-Morpork. A major attack on the Temple of Small Gods had been foiled, and one of Vimes' informants had led them to one of the major insurgent cells. A large number of tracts and destructive materials from the Grave Gourmands had been confiscated.

They had discussed, in depth, Hermione's findings about Pettigrew's internet wizardry. It had taken Harry the greater part of a riding day to try and explain what the internet was. Carrot immediately thought it would be fantastic to have everyone in the world able to communicate with each other; Angua, for the precisely the same reason, was deeply suspicious of it.

In turn, this led to a conversation about the machinations of Voldemort, horcruxes, and the temple attacks. Finally, Harry had buried his fears about the PDA and opened it so they could all participate in a congregational discussion with Ponder Stibbons, Hex and Rincewind.

The Discworld wizards were unanimous on one point. "He can't be trying to be spontaneously born as a god, here," Stibbons said. "That can't happen. Your world lacks dietygen. Yes, it does exist _here_, but no, he can't force it from his side. Dohn Jee thought that he could, as well, and we know that he was wrong."

"Who was that?" Harry asked.

"See, exactly my point," Stibbons said. "The uncertainty principle has some limitations. He's not trying to become a god. Not happening."

There was some silence amongst the group.

"Maybe he isn't trying to," Angua said.

"How's that?" Rincewind asked, virtually.

"Igor said that he was trying to accomplish a _resurrection_," Angua replied.

There was another long silence.

"I think that might be possible," Stibbons' voice came over the group.

"You mean … that he can reincarnate himself? Like the History Monks?" Carrot asked.

"Not precisely, Captain," Stibbons said. "I'll have to go over the thaumancy with Hex, but I think he's trying to re-establish his life as it was before Potter killed him.

"Look, a person is three parts – mind, body, spirit. Well, the Igors would have the parts to make a body, his memories appear to be present in the form of the stories, and with them the Igors can re-image a new brain, and it wouldn't be too hard to re-build the actual thinking bits. So that leaves one part to be sparked – the spirit, and that's where the stories and creating a belief, a _need_, for the person to be. And yes, I can see that although it would be difficult and expensive, enough belief, just enough, could be trapped into an otherwise lifeless husk and used for reanimation. The stories have _power_. They use this world's narrativium. Yes, it could work."

The group had arrived at another pause. They did so.

"He'd have a soul again, then," Harry said finally.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, I think he would," Stibbons concurred.

"We _must_ stop Pettigrew – and the others – before they can resurrect him," Harry said. "Voldemort is immensely powerful and immensely evil. If he doesn't intend to destroy the Discworld, which I very much doubt, he'll be trying to break back into Ear- I mean, Roundworld, and bring about the destruction he intended." _Before he creates a horcrux here in this world, where it would be impossible to find_, he thought bitterly.

"Why don't you think he would try to rule the Discworld?" Carrot asked.

"Voldemort is very possessive of controlling events in his life," Harry explained. "He wants things ordered just so. Besides, Discworld would be to him like a tool he could use. He wouldn't want to mess up the magic here, just in case he needed to escape again from er, Roundworld. It would be like the most supreme hideout of all. No one would ever think of looking for him here, and he could build up his powerbase to return. No, I think it's back to Earth is his real target."

Carrot scratched his chin. "Yes, I see," he said, finally. "I think I concur."

"So what is _your_ plan?" Rincewind asked, rhetorically.

"We'll speak with King Verence tomorrow," Carrot said, finally. "The Lancre witches will know about how much magic is being used, where, and how, in their realm. We find the base where Pettigrew is, apprehend him, and shut down the propaganda campaign. Anything else?"

There wasn't. All that was left was to finish the journey to Lancre.

The next morning they had entered into the city proper - such as it was - of Lancre Town. Shawn Ogg was standing outside, at full attention, in his formal attire as the standing army of Lancre. This meant he got to wear his shiny helmet, which he had carefully shined for this purpose (most of the year it was called into service as a flowerpot.) He saluted the patrol as it rode up, and held the Lancre flag before King Verence.

Harry dismounted his horse, and bowed before King Verence. "Greetings from the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, your majesty," Harry said carefully.

"How did you know this was King Verence, Harry? Have you stopped in Lancre before, from Lon-?" asked Carrot. Angua shot him a withering glance.

"Um, no. I assumed he was the king because he didn't have any shit on him," Harry said.

Shawn Ogg looked down and frowned. "Mum'll kill me! I forgot to change me trousers after manuring the back gardens!"

King Verence smiled. "Now, now, Shawn, no harm meant, I'm sure. Greetings to you all, Captain Carrot, Corporal Angua, and Constable Potter. I've had a clacks informing me of your arrival. Shawn, if you'll see to stabling the horses, I'll invite our guests in for something to break their ride."

Entering Lancre Castle, Harry was impressed at how clean everything was. It was generally his impression that the humbler people lived, the harder they worked at keeping neat, clean and tidy. Riddle Manor and Malfoy Manor had been squalid, and as to the old Grimmauld Place ... well, words need not be said. Here, where the rustic ambience of the country was supported by the efforts of such as Shawn Ogg, you could not only see your reflection in the floor, but thread a needle and sew back the loose button on your shirt.

"We've prepared a meal," Verence said. "My wife, Queen Magrat, will join us. She was formerly a member of the coven of Lancre witches, you know, and still is in daily contact with Gytha, and Esme drops by regularly. I'm sure she will be of use to you."

Harry sat down at the table with Carrot and Angua. The Queen walked in, followed by her daughter, who was very much at the "fairy princess" age.

Of course, in her case, it was mostly because she _was_ a fairy princess.

"Greetings and felicitations, Your Majesty, and to Princess Spelling," Carrot said. It was a fine opening line. Queen Magrat frowned for only a moment at the mention of her daughter's unfortunate last name, the legacy of a well-meaning but nervous Omnian. Harry looked perplexed at the exchange but bowed again, and dutifully went to greet the young princess.

"Hey, there," Harry said. "Apu!" said Princess Spelling.

"I think she's trying to say 'apple'," Magrat said, helpfully, pulling her precocious charge up on her hip. "Either she's learning some of her ABCs or I'm deathly afraid that Gytha Ogg has been spiking her formula with scumble. Nevertheless, let's sit and eat. You'll have to excuse her table manners."

"No need at all, madam," Carrot said. "You have an absolutely beautiful daughter."

This, of course, is the correct way to proceed with both witches and royalty - to complement on them their children at an early age. As they age, the children of royalty have an uncomfortable ability to prevent you from complementing them.

They sat at the Royal Dining Hall, which was quite simply and tastefully decorated with a plain brown tablecloth. Several dishes were brought out.

"Ah, a nice supper for you, I think," King Verence said. "Boiled beef or boiled boar, and we also have boiled asparagus, boiled potatoes and some lovely boiled artichokes. A bit early for the asparagus, really, but it's still quite nice."

Harry looked at the table askance. The only thing it was missing was turkey twizzlers. Boiled meat ... as stodgy and tastless as only British cuisine can get. And perhaps Lancre. Harry hadn't been this repulsed by a meal since his days at primary school with Dudley. Hogwarts had been a culinary oasis upon his enrollment. Since living with Hermione, he had come to appreciate reading cook books, and although he had been forced to cook by the Dursleys, he found that it had been a task he greatly enjoyed. Something creative came out of his work, and provided nourishment. To be brought back to the pre-Hogwarts days was ... underwhelming.

_So this is what it means to be a king,_ Harry thought dismally.

As the King and his wife helped himself to some dishes, Harry waited patiently until it was clear he would not violate protocol by helping himself. He reached for some of the artichokes. Hermione adored them, although Harry had never eaten them at the Dursleys and for him the sight had previously been quite enough. Now, thinking of Hermione, he tried them and found them to be succulent.

"I notice you seem to be avoiding meat, Constable," King Verence said aimiably.

"After our long ride, Your Royal Highness, I find it rather refreshing to be able to have fresh vegetables," Harry replied. _Shame you boiled them to death, _he thought. He noticed a somewhat discomfited look appear on the King's face, which vanished quite quickly.

"It is very kind of you, Sir, to provide for us in this manner," Carrot said. "As Watchmen the quality is much higher than that to which we are accustomed."

"Nonsense, Captain," Verence said more happily. "A very similar dish to that which we are eating would be enjoyed by the least of our subjects here in Lancre."

_I can well believe that,_ Harry thought. _Boiling. Second simplest method of food preparation known, save for direct flame. Well-regarded by abysmal boarding schools and cooks who don't have a bloody clue._

"We are quite grateful, sir, ma'am," Angua said, having a fourth helping of potatoes. She ate no meat in her human form and clearly Queen Magrat knew that, as she continued to offer the werewolf dishes she might prefer.

_They're not referring to them as 'your royal highness', _Harry noted. _Perhaps I've made a breach of protocol. He's not _my _king_.

"What dishes did you eat growing up in Ankh-Morpork, Mr. Potter?" Magrat asked him. He did not mistake the glamour of magic behind her eyes. _Be careful_, he thought.

"I am not actually Morporkian," Harry replied. "I'm … from the Counterweight Continent. I've found, though, the Ankh-Morpork diet quite sustaining. I guess if there is anything I miss from back home it's barbecue."

"And what would that be?" the King enquired.

"Well, a bit hard to explain, Sir," Harry said. "We would normally take charcoal ..." his voice trailed off until his eyes met with a brazier on the side of the room, clearly loaded with charcoal. "And place it in a vessel below a grating. We normally put a light coating of oil on the grating, and grill the meat quickly over high heat."

King Verence and his wife exchanged a glance. "And what is the reason for cooking in this manner?"

"It's quite economical, and it uses high heat quickly, so it concentrates the natural flavors of the food," Harry said. "We would cook meats, fish and vegetables in this manner quite commonly."

"I see ... " Verence II's eyes trailed off into the distance. "Perhaps, Harry, you might show me this … barbecuing … at a convenient time."

"With great pleasure, sir," Harry said. And he meant it.

"Not to rush into things, Sir, but perhaps you might tell us where we will be staying, and when we can expect to meet with Mistresses Ogg and Weatherwax?" Carrot asked.

_The direct approach,_ Harry thought.

"I've seen to it that Shawn has made some space in the Tower," Verence said proudly. "It's not often we're used to having an official militia. It was used, of course, by the Lancre army … whenever we had one … but recently it's more of storage area."

"It is good to know, sir, that peace reigns so happily in your kingdom," Angua said.

Verence's smile became beatific.

"I think you can get to Bad Ass tomorrow," Magrat continued. "You never know with Esme, so it's probably best to try and see Gytha Ogg. I don't think that there are any expectant mothers in the area at present, so I'm sure she's at home. She came over just two days ago, to get Shawn to re-cast her scumble pot."

Verence turned to Carrot. "It won't do, you know, to simply let the Ankh-Morpork City Watch carry arms and possible subdue people here in the Kingdom of Lancre," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that, your majesty," Carrot said somewhat formally. "We are very much attempting to prevent a potential disaster on the Disc."

"I am aware, Captain Carrot," the king replied. "Which is why I am pressing all of you into service as the official auxiliary army of the Kingdom of Lancre. Which is, in fact, you. As the official auxiliary force of our kingdom, you would have perfect right to carry arms and represent our national interests."

Carrot smiled. "Auxiliary army, you said, your majesty. Which units make up the army proper?"

"Shawn Ogg, of course. He's your commanding officer. Which means he should be able to obey most of the commands you have for him, but please try to keep him safe. If Nanny Ogg thinks you've hurt her eldest son …" his voice trailed off.

"What Verence is trying to say is that if Gytha thinks you're responsible for getting Shawn killed, you've got a damn sight more problems than whatever problem you're currently trying to solve," Magrat finished.

The Watchmen nodded slowly. "I think that we all understand each other, your majesties," Carrot said.

"I'll show you to the keep tower once we finish," Verence said. "If you're going to see Nanny Ogg tomorrow, you need all the sleep you can get tonight."

They entered into the tower after the dinner, during which Harry had no meat, but had finally had some asparagus as well.

"Your rooms are on the second floor," Verence said, "But Harry, if you will come with me down here first."

The walked to the basement of the tower. The dust was so thick Harry almost choked on it. _Strange,_ he thought. _Everything else is so clean_.

"Here, under the staircase," Verence motioned. Harry saw the doorway to what looked like a cupboard under the stairs.

"Help me open it, will you, lad? It's been a long time," the king said. Harry noticed the lock was rusty and the hinges were virtually clogged with dirt. Finally the budged the door open, revealing a series of steps down into darkness. Verence picked up a torch from a holder on the wall and prepared to go down.

"What is this, your majesty?" Harry asked.

"Verence, please. This is the Torture Chamber."

As they proceeded down into the chamber, Harry saw it was indeed a place of suffering. There were all the implements that would make a Death Eater beam with pride, but coated with dust and neglect.

"Not used recently, your majesty?" Harry asked.

"Never again, if I have any say over it," Verence said evenly. "I think these were last used in the reign of King Ye-Gods-He's-Heavy I. But something you said at dinner…"

He was poking about in a corner near an Iron Maiden. Harry stared at the torture device. It had a near-skeletal head with green-yellow hair and red eyes.

Verence idly looked at Harry as he stared at the torture device. Aware of the king's eyes on him, Harry blinked. "Reminds me of my old friend Edward. Long story."

"In any event, this is what we wanted," Verence said, pointing to a device on the floor. "It's a Vorbis turtle, or at least, what's left of it. A relic of old Omnia."

Harry stared at it. It was, quite simply, a cast-iron charcoal brazier with a metal grate. "That's a barbecue pit, that is," Harry said. Its usage in the current space dawned on him. "You mean that you …"

"_We_ haven't done anything with it," Verence said. "But could you use it for this barbecue of yours?"

"Well, yeah, perfectly," Harry said. "It would need to be cleaned, and probably the surface could have some olive or rapeseed oil rubbed in it."

"I'll have Shawn move it up to the kitchen, shall I then?" Verence asked. "And you can show us tomorrow your meal?"

"We would normally cook with something like this outside, your majesty. It will make a lot of smoke," Harry said.

"Very well, then, outside of the kitchen. There's a hearth there, so it won't be difficult." Verence said.

"Certainly your majesty," Harry said. They left and Harry found his fellow officers making inspecting their lodgings.

"We'll go to sleep now, Harry," Carrot said firmly. "I want to be up tomorrow morning early, then Bad Ass."

"Um … Bad Ass?" Harry asked tentatively.

Angua snorted. "The village where the witches live was named for a legendarily disobedient mule," she explained.

"I see," Harry said, smiling. "Good night."

…

There was no need for riding to Bad Ass, as Shawn Ogg assured them the journey was short enough for his mother to walk in less than an hour, or even less than 20 minutes, if she had not had her scumble that day.

As they approached her house, the door swung open to admit them. "We're here, mum," Shawn called out, as he wiped his feet on the mat.

"I know," Nanny replied coolly. She had her back to them, and was smoking a small cheroot, and drinking her tea.

"A good day to you, Mistress Ogg," Carrot called out, removing his helmet and stepping forward.

"Sez you," she replied moodily, and then turned and looked up at Carrot. And kept looking up. Her face immediately became more animated. "Well, and what wind blew you into town, laddie?" she said, instantly happier. "I did aways a think a man in uniform oughter look like … well, yer a man in uniform …" her voice trailed off. "There's a bit a tea left in the kettle, or some Suicider, if you're needin' a knees up," she said, hopefully.

"Perhaps later, Mistress Ogg," Carrot said. "At the moment, we'd like to know whether you or any of the other witches within the vicinity have been aware of any … unusual … magic activity occurring, recently."

Her eyes narrowed again, and she took a deep puff on the cigar. "This is all to do with him, innit?" she asked, blowing smoke critically and looking at Harry.

"With me?" Harry asked.

"Yes, with you," she said, her eyes moving him over impassively. "One of them old wizards shows up, figgered sooner or later someone else would."

"So you do know where Peter Pettigrew is, then," Harry said.

"That's 'is name, is it?" Gytha asked.

"Yes, Miss Ogg," Harry replied. "He didn't tell you?"

"Well, he sure din' come around here, that's fer sure," she said. "If he'd been slinkin' around tryin' to set up his shingle, Esme'd have his guts for garters, and that's no Igor-flirtin', either."

She motioned for the Watch to sit. They did so, except for Shawn, who went outside to refill the water tank. He knew when it was better to be discreet, and with his mum and witches, that was all the time.

"'Twas about five months ago, I was gettin' back from a birth over in Brambly, when I felt the magic startin'. Wasn't good, I knew right away. But I din't want to go over without any more than a 'by your leave' so I went to see Esme. She was borrowin' and went over there.

"Well, we thought it might be more oh them Lords and Ladies at first. Fair Folk. You know."

She looked at them. Carrot's brow had furled. "A noble?"

"No, no no. You know. One of the … fair ones."

"Someone with blond hair?" Carrot asked. He was slapped on the elbow by Angua, who had caught on immediately. "No," she hissed. Peering around the room, she saw an iron cooking pot sitting on a trivet. Stepping to it, she said the word as she grasped the pot.

"Elves," she said evenly.

"Them," Gytha nodded. "We'd a'thought they was back."

Mistress Ogg placed her pint pot firmly on the table. A challenge issued from her eyes; the challenge was, "so which of you is going to refill this for me, then?"

Harry walked over to the kitchen and found the little brown jug on the counter, and poured a large measure into the flagon. She looked at him with softer eyes. "Sit ya here so I kin look at you," Gytha said, and Harry took a position on the fender-stool reverentially.

"Only it weren't – them. It were you. Or one of you," she said, looking at him.

"What happened next?" Harry asked softly.

"Well, he took over the old ring temple. It had been used by … you know, them … and he began to put wards and things around it.

"After a while, he hired him an Igor or a few, and some other folk, to help him. They was cartin' stuff in and cartin' stuff out. Some of the rougher folks around there, they started working for 'em. Esme and I didn't know whether we should try and go in ourselves or wait, so we decided to wait. Esme keeps an eye on the main area, and she'd'a let me know if there was a problem."

"Perhaps we should speak with Mistress Weatherwax as well?" Carrot suggested.

"Nay, laddie, she's off borrowin' to try and keep an eye on them. She won't talk right now," Gytha said.

"We have to stop them," Harry said. "Pettigrew is attempting to perform a diabolical form of magic that will release one of the deadliest wizards ever known. Please, Miss Ogg, tell us how to get to this ring temple, and anything else you can inform us about the area."

Nanny Ogg drew a deep draught of her Suicider.

"The temple was used by the Fair Folk the last time. Our Shawn knows it. You'll need horses … it's at least a good four-hour ride, towards the Hub. The weather'll get nasty on ye, and it's pretty barren round those parts. Mos'ly you'll want to go inside, under the old temple, in the catacombs berneath it. It's … old and nasty and musty … and it's where he is.

"Dunno how many they are, but Esme doesn't think there's that many. A couple o' Igors, a coupla a dwarfs, that was about it. Not more than six or seven people, anyways."

Harry looked at Nanny Ogg, and then at his companions. "Right. We're going tomorrow," he said evenly. "Let's get back to the tower and plot this out."

…

"I still think ye ought to have more of an army," Buggy said. He was leaning against the ink well on the table.

"I wish we had more people, too," Harry said. "But time is of the essence. Besides, we'll have Shawn, just look at him, he's worth three men. A werewolf's worth three men. And that leaves Carrot and myself. If they only have six or seven, we should be able to move quickly and disarm them. We'll start early in the morning, try to arrive before sunrise, and get in and surprise them."

"We'll have more arms, too," Carrot said. He had gone up a floor and opened up the old army stores. "We'll have swords, maces, shields, and short bows. Each."

Harry looked at him. "I thought the swords was a captain's privilege and that we were only armed with truncheons."

"True of Watchmen, Harry," Carrot said imperturbably. "But we're members of the Lancre Auxiliary Army. This is standard equipment for us."

"I see," Harry said.

"So what are you doing with this barbecue tonight?" Carrot said. "I'm very interested in watching it."

"Well, I hope you like it," Harry said. "In fact, I'm off to the kitchens now, so King Verence won't worry."

"Right then," Carrot said. "A good meal before we go is probably a good idea, anyway. Angua and I will gather our equipment, and see you down there for an early dinner."

Harry made his way to the kitchens. He'd inspected most of the supplies and found he could easily make a decent dipping sauce out of some of the various cooking oils and herbs, and planned on grilling some asparagus and onions as well as steaks. The one thing he had not yet found was the butcher. The meat would need to be cut quite differently from yesterday to make a proper steak.

"Pardon, me, Miss Miggins," Harry said tentatively. The partially deaf, fully hysterical kitchen wench looked up with a paring knife. "What luv?" she asked. Her cigarette dribbled ash into the flour she was kneading.

"Where would the meat be for this afternoon's cooking?" Harry asked.

"'Asn't been cut yet, dearie. Outside to the gibbets with ye, you'll find 'em," she said.

Harry walked out, past the unmentionables, and finally found his area by following the flies to the recently skinned carcass.

"Ah … cow, I see," Harry said, quietly. Neither he nor Hermione had eaten beef in years.

"Yeah, lad, and King Verence said you'd be wantin' him cut up a bit different."

Harry had seen many a gruesome sight during the Second War, and even some pretty tough things as an auror. But he'd never actually seen the inner workings of an abattoir. He'd heard Mr. Weasley occasionally mention something about "politics and sausages" but never had it taken meaning until now.

"Uh, right, you can just cut us some T-bones, about an inch thick?" Harry said, trying hard not to look at the carcass.

"A what bone?" the butcher said, puzzled.

_Just my luck, he's illiterate,_ thought Harry.

"Well, are these … is there … is there any danger of a mad cow?" Harry finally asked.

"Mad, they're all mad, lad. You think you'd sit there and take it if someone's gonna cut you up for stew? They're bleedin' ticked!" the butcher said.

Harry sighed.

"Okay, look, cut along the vertebra, along the sides, into a splice, like a fork, but straight, do you see?" Harry showed him, marking the areas with a preliminary cut.

"Bloody hell, lad, do you know how large that is, it'll take forever to boil, and then be too stringy!"

"I'm rather counting on that," Harry muttered. "Okay, I think it's safe to say they haven't discovered meat-and-bone-meal here. After you cut the side steaks into 1-inch thick pieces, clean out the spinal column, you can't eat it."

"All right, lad, it's your funeral," said the butcher, starting his work.

"If it's mad cow, it will be," Harry muttered as he wandered back to the kitchen.

The entire castle staff gathered to watch the cooking.

"So you see, you can take the charcoal from the brazier, and then place into the pan, covering it with the grill, then, place the steak on it. Steaks this size will take about five minutes a side," Harry explained. "Now, before we place the steaks on it, we first rub them down with a bit of olive oil, or butter will do nicely as well, salt, pepper, and any herbs you might care to add. I like a bit of spice, paprika, or the like."

The smell smelled … well, like the aroma of a proper barbi, frankly. Harry's stomach was producing gastric juice at the very beginning. He noticed Angua had excused herself early. He felt sorry for the werewolf; steak night was one of Remus' favorite nights.

The steaks came off the grill, and then Harry set them on a tray. "Your majesty ..." he said, presenting the offerings at the table. "Grilled steak, asparagus, and onions and baked jacket potatoes."

There was only the sound of fervent mastication.

"Well, what do you think," Harry finally asked.

"Extremely good, Mr. Potter. I think it safe to say you've really opened our throats today," King Verence said.

Carrot beamed. "It's fantastic, Harry! And an excellent source of protein. We'll need it all for tomorrow."

"That we will, Captain. That we will."

…

It was about 1 a.m. The party made its way at an economy of noise across the road. Carrot and Harry were dressed in ring armor, and had shields at their backs. Carrot was carrying his sword. Harry had a short sword at his side and was carrying a spiked mace as his primary weapon.

Angua was wearing a studded and padded leather jerkin, which she could strip out of quickly. In addition to her sword, she had a shortbow and small quiver. They had left Shawn Ogg to guard their horses.

The ring temple was shrouded in fog, but easy to tell at a distance. To Harry it resembled nothing more than a gazebo on a rather shabby promontory. As he grew closer, though, he saw it was made of marble, and must have at one time been rather elegant. It rested behind an ancient necropolis, a foreboding cemetery that smelled foul.

A narrow file was cut into the base of the promontory. It was clear this was where the catacombs were located. Angua stepped behind a plinth, removed her jerkin, and trotted back to the group in lupine form. She took a few experimental sniffs and her muzzle furrowed.

They quietly made their way inside – and down. Down a long series of winding stairways, into the catacombs.

It was clear now to Harry the fat had been taken here. He could smell it overwhelmingly. As they made their way down a long corridor, he also saw a handful of pamphlets here and there on the ground.

_This is the place_, he thought.

They rounded a corner, and saw the glow of a torch ahead. They could just overhear a conversation.

"How soon now?"

"Not thure, marthter. The belief is not yet thtrong enough. Thoon, though."

"It looks close."

"Yeth, we've got the bodieth and the thpirith. But the mind – until the belief cautheth the thpirit to grathp its potential, the mind will not be there. But we are cloth."

"Very well. We will need to …"

"Pardon me, marthter, but are your guethth thuppothed to be here?"

"Guests? What guests?"

"Them."

And now the Igor was pointing to them, and Pettigrew saw them. "Potter!" he yelled.

"Get him!" Harry cried, and Angua bounded forward. Pettigrew dashed past a curtain in the rear of the room. "Igor! Get the materials we need and get out – to the other place! And send me all of the Inferi – now!"

The trio pursued Pettigrew through the curtain as the Igor disappeared. They found themselves in a massive underground sepulcher, with an ancient altar. Pettigrew made it onto the dais and raised his arms.

"My Lords! Attack and Defend!"

An army of inferi emerged from the darkness, all carbon-copies of Tom Riddle. Harry could see they were in various stages of completion; some had only vaguely human-like features, and were hunched and misshapen. Others looked more and more like Tom Riddle, and these seemed the more dangerous, walking in an erect manner, attacking with more purpose than the struggling grubs.

"Haven't tried the Unforgivable Curses here, have you, Potter? They're _wickedly _powerful!" came the screaming, high-pitched voice of Peter Pettigrew. His army of loathsome, misshapen half-men were not fast, but proving plenty time-consuming for the Trio to put down.

Carrot's sword sliced through them like suet, but there were so many ...

Carrot remained at the vanguard as Angua, in werewolf form, tried to drag down Pettigrew. Harry stood beside Carrot, smashing into the inferi-like creatures with his mace and attempting to help propel them forward, toward the defiled altar.

Angua's snapping finally drew Pettigrew's attention. Pettigrew's metallic hand reached into a pouch at his waist and tossed a mix of gleaming dust at her, causing Angua to _whelp_ in dispair. "Snort silver dust, _bitch_," he snarled. "I'm just sorry I couldn't do that to my old _friend_ Remus," Pettigrew said, spitting. Wormtail kicked her in the snout, knocking her off the dais. The werewolf landed, half-human, in a pile below the altar and stayed ... too still.

"Angua!" Carrott cried. His sword described a near-blinding arc as he made the distance between himself and Pettigrew less than 10 feet. Harry was right behind him, and bashed in one of the man-grubs that had a clean shot at Carrot.

"It's been real fun, kiddies, but I have to go now," Pettigrew said. "You've set me back a bit, but no matter, a week or so, more or less, won't make a difference to the Dark Lord." Pettigrew whipped his wand out of an inner pocket and brandished it at them. "Noticed you forgot yours, Potter," he snapped. "Don't leave home without it!"

With a wave, a blinding flash of light stunned them, and a secondary spell struck the top of the temple. In the blink of an eye, Pettigrew was gone. Harry and Carrot looked up to see the marble ceiling collapse, crashing down upon them with uncountable tons of stone and earth.


	19. Here Comes a Hero

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Please read the disclaimer and summary in Chapter One. Thanks to Dumbledork for keeping me going, Loretto's finest is heading your way once again!

**HERE COMES A HERO**

Everything seemed to happen at once.

Shawn Ogg saw the ring temple buckle and collapse; the earth shook and it fell in on itself into a rapidly forming sinkhole.

Which was odd, when he thought about it, since the land underneath was composed mainly of granite.

As the dust cloud rose and enveloped him and the horses, Shawn thought he made out two figures through the haze scurrying away down the road to the south, but he was more concerned about his militia. After all, King Verence II had given him strict orders that he wasn't to let them get hurt, if he could help it. Godness knew what his mum would do.

There were two birds rather conspicuously hovering about the temple as he approached (not timidly, since Shawn had never yet had reason to understand the concept of fear. Fear was what happened to people who got in the way of Shawn's mum).

Shawn peered down. This was going to take awhile.

"Hoo?" came the cry from the owl.

"Er – I think it's the three of them down there, but there's a whole lot of dead people down there, too. I'm going to need some help digging them out. And we need some carts," Shawn said.

Owl turned to the buzzard.

"Dunno who yer workin' for, mate, but I'm heading to the nearest clacks tower, and putting through an emergency message to Ankh-Morpork for Commander Vimes," said Buggy Squires, from the perch on his buzzard. "E'en so, they'll be dead before we can help out. Hope yer lot are closer."

The owl blinked once and soared off.

"Could've at least said goodbye," muttered the gnome. "Ahoy down there!" he shouted down to Shawn, who was moving boulders as quickly as he could with his bare hands.

"Who's that?" Shawn asked askance.

"Constable Buggy Squires, Ankh-Morpork City Watch," the gnome shouted back. He was used to this. "Didya know that there are two shovels and a pickaxe back there?"

"Where?" asked Shawn.

"Stand up. Turn around. More. Good. Walk about 800 – sorry, about 20 – paces forward, and you'll find 'em. You'll be quicker that way," Squires said. "I'm heading for a clacks tower."

"Thanks!" Shawn roared, and rushed towards the equipment. He also found a few lengths of rope, and brought them back to the destruction level.

…

Everything seemed to be happening at once.

It took more than an hour for Buggy Squires to alight on a new clacks tower and began to get a message to Ankh-Morpork. The trouble was, it was misty here, and even with the new colored signal lights, it was going to take hours to get the message onto the main trunk line. He pulled out a notebook the size of a flea and began to make some calculations, taking into account the main line feeders and the hour of the dead. It didn't look likely that they would get the message until mid-day tomorrow at the earliest.

Buggy wondered if he should attempt to fly to a different position to send off the message in duplicate, or if he should fly back to Lancre castle. Finally he decided that his place was with his fellow Watchmen and began to head back.

…

The owl swooped first onto the shutter outside Gytha Ogg's house, where Greebo stalked it for a moment, before getting a sudden feeling that _she_ was involved.

Greebo knew that if _she_ was involved, bad things could happen; after all, _she_ had twice turned him into – of all things – a human. Believing that discretion – in this particular case – was the better part of valor, he went to stalk more suitable sources of prey.

The owl had pecked at Gytha's window for a good five minutes before Nanny Ogg turned to it and said, "Well, what do you …"

The question died on her lips. She looked deeply into the owl's eyes.

"Get Magrat. I'll get Agnes," she said crisply.

…

The owl alighted on a perch of the Royal Keep, such as it was.

What it was a modest house (not much more than a shack, by the standards of some Ankh-Morpork neighborhoods) was also the home to his and her majesties King Verence II and Magrat Garlick. But because it was Magrat's house, there were tasteful herb gardens, lovingly tended, and the inside had lovely, light coloured paint and decorations with crystals and incense burners.

When the owl alighted next to her tarragon bushes, it took Magrat less than a second to look the creature it its eyes and see what Granny Weatherwax shared with her. She dropped her wide-brimmed hat and gardening gloves and ran for her husband.

…

Within ten minutes the King and his wife were in the city square – such that it was – in Lancre town. It was lucky, the king reflected, that it was a market day. The king stood on the town crier's square (temporarily vacant as Shawn Ogg was otherwise employed) and called out to his people.

"Good citizens! We are in urgent need of people for a most important task! We require four large wagons or carts, eight horses, and thirty men of strong body at once to go and urgently assist … our auxiliary units in an expedition! I urge you, Lancastrians, volunteer forthwith!"

The market paused and watched the King warily. This had the trepidations sound of when the King attempted to force the citizens to create a parliamentary democracy, with himself merely as titular monarch. Damned if _they_ were going to do all the work; a king that shouted loud and tortured was something that they _understood_. So long as _they_ weren't paying the tax, he was fine. After a moment, the market continued unabated.

Then Queen Magrat spoke.

"Perhaps his majesty did not make himself clear …" she said, almost _sotto voce_. But when she said it, even the _crickets_ paid attention.

The residents of Lancre had long understood the general rules of government. If you disobeyed a direct order from your sovereign, it was your own damn fault if your head adorned the city pole (Lancre being too poor too afford a city gate). But they had seen Verence for a while, and while he was a bit of a fool, they realized he ensured that day-to-day commerce continued (such as it was), that the poor always had a warm coat in the winter, and that the maidens of their land, if they were ravished, were at least offered a reasonable proposal afterwards.

He was, in other words, _nothing_ like King Verence I, or the oft-decried Queen Griminir the Impaler. He was a king that a man could deal with, and obey at one's convenience.

Everyone knew, of course, that Queen Magrat was a witch, and a member of the Lancre coven. And with witches, on the other hand …

One disobeyed witches only once. Ever. And in many of the places where witches had been disobeyed, grass would never grow again.

There was a frantic movement towards front and center as _everyone_ attempted to volunteer at once.

"Now then … now then …" King Verence II muttered. "Right, you lot … go and get all of the shovels and rakes and implements of construction, you can quickly get your hands on … you … we'll get the carts hooked up, two horses each, four if we can get them, and the men in the back."

The king turned to a group of active-looking young ladies. "You three … I need bandages, compresses, splints, clean linen, and you'll work with Queen Magrat directly," he said. He looked at his wife. "I'm sure Gytha and Agnes will be here, and you'll probably have the hardest work, once we get to the … to them," he ended awkwardly.

Unspoken was the thought, _if they're still alive_.

…

Under the direction of their sovereigns, it took much less time than would be expected to make it to the ring temple site. Nanny Ogg, Agnes Nitt and Queen Magrat sat, smoking (only Nanny Ogg) in the most comfortable position possible of the cart, taking the occasional drink from a hip flask (Nanny Ogg).

King Verence had spurred ahead on a horse solo, to better gauge the ground and determine where the carts should alight. He found Shawn Ogg removing boulders that most men would simply go around.

"Shawn! Are they all right?" he said as he rode up.

"I think so, your highness," Shawn said. He was moving methodically to keep himself from losing steam. "Mr. Squires says he can see them."

"Mr. – who?" asked King Verence, dashing to the ground.

"Careful, your majesty. Mr. Squires is a ger-nome, sir. He is down below the rubble, finding the best places for us to dig."

"Down here, Sir!" came a wee voice.

The King bent down and saw Buggy sitting on a boulder.

"Are they alive?" King Verence asked.

"Yeah, they're alive. There's some kinda magic bubble around them, holding up the masonry. If not, they'd be squashed smaller'n me," the gnome said.

"What else?"

"A whole heckuva lot a dead people down here," the gnome said. "At least 50. Must've been a family."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well they all look alike," the gnome replied. "I mean, you lot all look alike anyway, but they _really_ look alike."

…

Five hours later, the Lancre rescue party had cleaned enough rubble aside that they could see the party. A faint blue outline covered Angua, Carrot and Harry. The boulders lay on top of it. After some initial testing, the workers had climbed on top of the outline and moved the boulders off. However, they still couldn't penetrate it.

Carrot finally stirred.

"Captain Carrot Sir! This is King Verence! Can you hear me?" the king shouted from about two feet away.

"Loud and clear, your majesty," responded the Watchman, trying to stir. "I'm all right, I think. Angua …" his voice trailed off. Angua was having trouble breathing.

"What about Potter?"

"I think …" Carrot turned. He was able to crawl over to Harry, who appeared still unconscious. "I'll just check…"

"STOP" Magrat's commanding voice bellowed over them.

"Your Majesty?"

"Somehow Harry's put up the shield over you," she said evenly. "He's using an immense amount of magic."

Nanny Ogg and Agnes nodded. They could _feel_ the magic channeling through him. "I don't know if it's safe to wake him," she said. "Gytha?"

"Not my thing, really," the witch said frowning. She looked at the owl which was pecking the shield tentatively. "What do you think, Esme."

"Hoo."

"Really?"

"Hoo!"

"Well, I s'pose," she said, glumly.

"Hoo!"

"Er … Mistress Ogg?" asked Carrot.

"Esme says don' wake him that way, it's too dangerous. It's like … he's borrowin' himself, somehow, and if he don't come back on his own … he won't ever," she said.

"So how do we get out?" Carrot asked, going directly to the heart of the problem.

Nanny Ogg turned to Agnes. "You gotta do it," she said promptly.

Agnes stared at her.

"Sing. Both of y'all. Together," she said.

"But Nanny …" Agnes said, a bit frightened. Oh, she had sung at the Ankh-Morpork Opera House, or at least Perdita had, mostly, but never like this …

"Not that high falutin' way you can what breaks stuff," Nanny Ogg said. "You know. The _other_ way."

Agnes and Perdita were capable of singing with each other in harmony, either at very high or very low tones. When she sang _really_ low, it could enter your brain without the needing to wait around for your ears to do the work. Some of the Elves were even envious of the talent. Most people around her got faintly queasy from it.

"Okay … what should I sing," she asked.

"Well, there's a song about the hedgehog…" Nanny Ogg began, hopefully.

"She is _not_ singing the hedgehog song here," Magrat hissed.

"Well, it can't be a lullarbye, we want 'em awake," Nanny Ogg said. "Try 'Gatherin' Rhubarb'."

Agnes remembered the song from her long-ago musical heroes the Band with Rocks In. She took a deep breath and began to hum low …

The sound quality changed, subtly. The song was meant to be a sort of funny folk song, sung to get your toes tapping.

Toes tapped, indeed. They tapped in virtually any direction that was _away_ from Agnes Nitt. Since Angua, Carrot and Harry were trapped under the shield, they lay there and took it, although Carrot's eyes swam around his head they way certain people's eyes did when they got _knurd_ (not drunk; _knurd_ was the opposite of drunk, so far sober that a person will desperately consume alcohol in an attempt to never be _knurd_ again).

The singing somehow got through to Harry. The shield flickered and then fell. Agnes stopped singing. As soon as the rescue party could recover itself, it hurried over.

"Get her on the stretcher," Magrat said crisply. She felt for a pulse and found it. "Slippery. She'll be okay, though. Cover her up with some blankets, she needs to be kept warm. You can see if you can get any fluids into her as soon as she revives."

She glanced at Nanny Ogg for a second and then amended this.

"Any liquids _except_ for scumble."

Carrot was sitting with his head between his knees. An experience of being _knurd_ would effect him less than it would others.

"Lie back … that's right," Magrat said absently. "I think you're going to be fine," she said. "Help him into the wagon with Angua, and bring them both back to the palace."

Meanwhile, Nanny Ogg, Agnes and the owl were hovering over Harry. He was still unconscious.

Magrat looked at Nanny expectantly, but Nanny wasn't letting go of anything she didn't want to. Nanny Ogg normally saw life on the other end of the spectrum; as the greatest midwife in history, most of Lancre had been born into her hands. But occasionally a birth bed turned into a death bed, as well. Nanny hated that she had to be at both ends at the same time, but that was part of the price you paid when you were a witch (or, for that matter, anyone else who gets born).

"We don't know, yet. Esme will come to see him when we get back to Bad Ass," Nanny Ogg said tautly. "Get a litter over here and get him into a cart. We'll take him to my house. Agnes, you may need to stay with me for a while."

…

It took awhile, but the fog finally cleared. And the semaphore towers, which dotted the landscape like pins in a pincushion, connected. Messages clacked in and out.

Buggy Squires' message finally made it onto Tump Tower, more than nine hours later, where it was transcribed by an operator and then passed to pigeon. The pigeon was burdened with a cylinder roll on its leg, and set off to home, which was Psuedopolis Yard.

As the pigeon entered the pigeon hole, the message cylinder was knocked off its leg, and fell into a basket, which caused a bell to ring. The entire apparatus had been designed not by Bergholt Stuttley ('Bloody Stupid') Johnson, but by Roger Dearheart, which meant that it worked. Quite well.

A dwarf pulled the message out of the tin. "Secure priority message for Commander Vimes," he said. Sgt. Colon looked up. "Right. Bring it straight away to the house, then," he said. It was time, after all, for "Where's My Cow?" to be read.

Some things were _important._

…

"Sam, you're not planning on staying out all night without a coat on, are you?" Sybill asked. It was a nightly question. She knew Sam sometimes had to work nights. But she wanted him to at least wear the new coat she had bought for him. It would prevent Gnats, at least.

He sighed. He really _didn't_ want to wear the coat. It was a lovely piece of work. One of the finest products of Overcrumbed & Stitches. But … they invariably would get muddy (if lucky) and bloody (more probably), and he hated for her to see them in that state. On the other hand, there was always the possibility it wouldn't rain tonight ...

The rapping came at the door.

"Sorry sir, priority clacks for you," said Stronginthearm. He had been admitted. Nobby, well known to Willikins, hadn't.

Sam sighed and opened the secure strip on the side, and idly glanced down at the message. Then Mr. Retina made its little negotiation with Mr. Brain Cell.

If Mr. Iris was capable of translating Mr. Brain Cell's reaction into heat, there would have been an immense fire hazard inside the Vimes estate.

"Give me that coat _now_," Vimes said, his voice in the frighteningly steady tone it took when everything was going horribly wrong. He slipped into it as Sybil and Willikins, well-accustomed to the warning signs, discreetly stepped back. Vimes turned. "Willikins, get the carriage ready," he said.

"Yes sir," the butler said, oozing out. Vimes turned back to his watchman.

"Stronginthearm, you, Detritus and Nobby get over to Tump Tower, and get a line open directly to Lancre immediately. Should Mr. Lipwig wish to know why you are taking over his communication locus, tell him Detritus will be happy to bring him to the Patrician's Palace and he can discuss it with me. It'll take you about an hour, I reckon, but get Buggy on the other end and get him to fill you in one what the current status is. This report has to be almost half a day old now," he said.

"Right you are, sir," Stronginthearm said. "Should I send someone to the palace as well?"

_You'd send Carrot,_ Vimes fumed. _And that's the bloody problem. I hoped this was never going to happen again._

"No. I'll be at the Yard in one hour."

…

The palace grounds were designed by B.S. Johnson as a testimony to his ability to absolutely screw up virtually any commission that he could be given. The Patrician was well aware that because the maze and clock had the tendency to be hazardous at the best of times, people avoided them (including the Thieves' Guild, on account of by now even the dimmest of would-be thieves understood that stealing the clock was _not_, in fact, a prerequisite for admittance to the guild. The first dozen or so who had tried it hadn't been found, completely, but enough of what was left of them had been found to dissuade the continuation of the rumor).

Vimes stepped up the clock without a second's thought and swung a lever, the mere act of which would have emasculated any thief (since they would be looking for the trap, rather than looking for the trap door). The trapdoor opened as usual and Vimes dropped 20 feet onto a mattress specially placed just for this eventuality. The room led to a room which led to a room that finally led to a secret passage under the palace, leading to the Patrician's chambers.

The walls here were lined with paintings of former counselors to former Patricians, back from the days when they normally lived for only a few hours.

About halfway down the hall, past the portraits of Lord Snapcase the Mad, Duke Elling the Ton, and Geroff the Mat, he stopped. All of the portraits had legends identifying the counselors, and often their next of kin, for future reference.

Except for this portrait. In place of a name, in the legend field, was the simple script "No. 7".

Vimes stared up. The figure stared down, its blue eyes twinkling.

"Well?"

"They've bloody been attacked," Vimes fumed. "Carrot … Angua … and Potter. They've been buried below about five tons of rubble. We don't even know if they are alive."

"Ah. Quite a problem, then."

"Yes, it's quite a bloody problem!" Vimes shouted. "What am I going to do about it? I don't have –"

"We," said the figure, quietly.

"I said – what?" Vimes asked.

"We are going to do something about it, Commander. Now."

The figure stepped out of the painting and onto the floor. Vimes had faced death on more occasions than he cared to count (47) as a Watchman, and employed half-a-dozen ghouls, a zombie, and of course, with recent events, a vampire. But never a wizard. Unseen University was just the place for them; it kept them the heck out of his hair. Rincewind wasn't so bad, seeing as how he was a coward, but a powerful wizard … was suddenly more menacing than any of Sybil's dragons.

"Ah, Commander Vimes," came the well-known voice of the Patrician. "Not planning on leaving your post unmanned, I trust?"

"The last time we had Carrot here!" Vimes said. "Now … I know better than putting Colon in charge. I guess I could put Pessimal in his place, but I'm afraid that's going to be even worse, at this point. I mean, he still hasn't been a seargent, yet."

"Might I suggest we give Mr. Pump temporary command?" the Patrician said. "As he will not be in the Watch permanently, but simply 'holding the fort' as it were, Mr. Pump will certainly have his orders obeyed, but not have to worry about retribution for time to come."

Vimes simply nodded. It _was_ a good solution. Dorfl was a fine copper, for clay, and the concept of _two_ golems in the Watch would terrify virtually any thief. The question was, would it stop the Grave Gourmands.

"I am sorry to see you are out," the Patrician said to the other occupant of the corridor. "Of course, one hopes to always be in. I have greatly enjoyed our conversations. I wish you well on your adventure."

The figure smiled and nodded, then turned for the exit.

"You are coming, I assume, Commander Vimes?"

"How do you intend to do this?" Vimes asked.

"I suppose it would be as well to stop by your fine Watch-house to start, so that you may issue whatever instructions you feel best for your men. Then we shall head for the University, so that I may borrow a broom."

"Oh, gods, no. I've ridden a broom before," Vimes said.

"Splendid! I have not for some time indeed, but I am sure it is like falling off a broom. So easy to remember."

"If Potter lives through this, I'm going to kill him," Vimes growled.

…

It had taken less time than they expected. Mr. Pump was already at Pseudopolis Yard, and the Watch was now ready to obey his orders. Pessimal, indeed, seemed to understand that his role was to handle most of the day and paperwork and see to it that Mr. Pump primed the well-head for the rest of the Watch. Sally was beginning to re-route the duties of the Night Watch, so that she would serve as primary point of contact for Grave Gourmand duties.

He had been surprised that the Uberwaldian had come up to him just before he left.

"Angua will be all right, won't she, Sir?" she asked softly.

"I'm sure she will, Sally," he said, distractedly thinking of his journey.

"If she isn't, sir, I'll resign my badge right now and renounce my League of Temperance ribbon for the time it take me to track the bastards down," the vampire said. Her eyes were turning red.

"You Will Continue To Serve The Watch, Lance-Constable Von Humpeding," Pump said. His red glow matched hers, hue-for-hue.

The vampire lost. "Sir," she said, finally staring at the floor. "Tell _Kzad-Bhat_ we're thinking of them."

Vimes smiled, in spite of himself. Sally had even learned some dwarfish, and though he would never let her break the law in her desire for vengence, he was glad to see she was turning copper. He glanced down at the latest clacks from Buggy. Potter was now in the village of Bad Ass, still unconscious, but alive. Carrot appeared unhurt, and Angua had been badly injured but was under the care of Magrat at the palace, and was seemingly going to be fine.

Vimes was going to bring them back home. _Damn it, I will not let these bastards kill my men,_ he thought sharply. _And Potter, you're one of us, now._

…

They stopped at the University. Ponder Stibbons very nervously handed them the broom. "Er … I'm not sure, sir, we never did get those rings put up properly, and after that, we er, lost one of the things …"

"Doesn't matter, Mr. Stibbons, no problem at all."

Vimes could tell that the broom was … not like any regular Discworld broom. For one, it had a windscreen on the front, and instead of a simple sitting area with a stirrups for the feet, it had a recliner on it. The broom also borethe legend _The Pride of Portree_ on the side.

"We're going on that?" Vimes demanded.

"Well, let me see … yes, I think so. Oh, just a moment …" there was a waving of hands and suddenly the broom doubled in size, with another recliner added, and a space for Vimes' bags.

"Strap those down, please, Mr. Stibbons, if you don't mind."

Vimes took his seat warily. He had to admit, this was much more comfortable than the last time he had had to sit with a stick up his arse for eight hours. And the windscreen was _huge_ … it would almost certainly make the ride comfortable.

"Your own design, sir?" he asked.

"Ah, no. Actually, a suggestion from Leonard of Quirm. I cannot for the death of me understand how we came to overlook such obvious things."

"Right," Vimes said, nervously looking about him. "Perhaps we'd ought to be moving?"

"Oh yes, certainly. Which way is it, exactly?"

Vimes looked for the Patrician's Palace, and then followed the line of clacks towers. "Er – that way," he gestured. "We can follow the up line as it heads towards making the Hub split."

"Everything all right back there, Mr. Stibbons?"

"Yes, sir, I think you're all set. Tell Mr. Pot-"

His words were cut off by the surge of upthrust power.

…

Harry Potter had beencomatose for more than a dozen hours but was finally coming around. He looked up weakly to see a well-fed young witch mopping his brow.

"Hi there," she said. "Have a nice nap?"

His head felt like someone had been at it with a can opener.

"Not particularly," he said truthfully. "I assume I've been causing another spike on Mr. Stibbons' thaumic chart."

"You've been doing some magic, all right, I can tell you that," she said smiling. "What is that about a thaumic chart?"

"Er, Professor Ponder Stibbons has this chart that measures different thaumic output and can cross-reference them to us," he said wearily. "Like, for example, he said that Mistress Weatherwax was teaching borrowing to ... I think it was ... Miss Tiffany Aching."

"Tiffany? I don't think so, she's being tutored by Miss Level," the witch replied. "Granny hasn't yet agreed to teach her borrowing."

"Oh, I see," Harry said. "Hmm. Ponder said the borrowing magic was stronger than he suspected. And he also mentioned a Perdita Nitt."

The witch dropped her bucket. It spilled out on the rug, wetting Greebo, who began to pitch a fit. Nanny Ogg looked crossly at Agnes, who was staring out into nothingness.

"Er, I'm sorry, are you Perdita?" he ventured.

Agnes looked a bit askance. "He can separate us," she said under her breath.

"I'm sorry?" Harry asked.

"My name is Nitt. Agnes Nitt," she said, sharply. "And …"

"Um … she's your sister?" Harry asked.

A completely different voice came out of Agnes' throat. "Perdita ... and I ... are the same person," she managed.

"I … see," Harry said. As an auror, you ran into cases of muggles that had true mental problems, who thought that they were wizards. Sometimes this caused problems. _Never seen a case of multiple personality disorder like this_, he thought.

"You ... didn't happen to run into a Lucy Tockley, did you?" she asked, after a while.

"Who?"

"She ... may have called herself Diamanda," Agnes said. "With … Ponder?"

"No ma'am, I don't think Professor Stibbons is currently ... involved," Harry said.

She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then got up. "Someone here wants to talk to you," she said.

A very old woman, who had been entirely silent up this point, finally walked up as Agnes left the room.

"Hello, young man," she said.

"Hello, ma'am," Harry said. "Mistress … Weatherwax?" he ventured.

She nodded.

"I have a gift for you, ma'am, back at … the Lancre castle, I think," he said. "Where am I?"

"You're at Gytha Ogg's house," she said. "We brought you here from the temple."

"Carrot? Angua?" Harry's brain tried to regain control.

"They're fine. Carrot is, anyway. She'll be okay," Granny Weatherwax said. "They're at the castle. What did you do down there?"

"When Wormtail crushed the roof, I must have used a combination Protego charm, Bubblehead charm, and Wingardium Leviosa spell," Harry said. "I just … thought that I wanted us to be safe."

"Umm … well that was good thinkin', anyway," Granny said. "So what were all them men-things?"

"Some kind of inferious," Harry said. "He's attempting to raise a wizard from our world back from the dead. It doesn't look like he's finished yet. We have to stop him-"

"Yes, lad, we do. But not right now- you've got to rest awhile yet," Granny said.

"He got away – do we know where he went? We have to," Harry tried to pull himself up and felt a million pin-pricks of pain.

Granny Weatherwax gently pushed him back in the bed. "Not just now, lad, you still need a full day's rest, it's only been 15 hours or so-"

She turned towards the window. "_No, no,_" she said, very softly. "_It can't be_."

Harry wasn't sure what she was upset about but tried to get himself in a position to fight. His head throbbed horribly.

"You … you can't do this," Granny managed, her voice breaking.

The doorknob turned. The door opened. A man walked in, wearing dark robes, with a hood over his face.

Granny stared. Gytha stared. Agnes stared. Harry stared. Greebo didn't bother staring but began licking the other paw. He was a cat, after all; how important could humans be?

"You … you … you _left_," Granny managed. "You're _out_. This means you can't go back _in_."

"We always knew were on borrowed time, Esmerelda."

"You should've jes borrowed it!" she shouted. Her eyes were glowing with a combination of rage, terror and utter dispair.

"Perhaps, Esmerelda, but we both know that it is more important to do what is right, than what is easy."

Granny Weatherwax got to her feet, and seized her cane. Without another word, she stamped out of the house, and her feet were heard on the path.

Seconds later, lightning struck. Then came the sound of the thunder. A deluge of a rainstorm began.

"Who are you, and what did you do to upset Esme?" Gytha asked. There wasn't even a pretense of politeness in the question. She wielded the inquiry as efficiently as Harry had wielded his mace.

The man in the dark robes stepped forward into the room. A hand reached into a pocket and retrieved a packet of pastilles. He put one in his mouth.

"Lemon drop?" he offered.

"I'm not askin' ye again," Nanny Ogg asked.

"Will you tell them who I am, Harry?" The hood slipped back. The eyes twinkled.

Harry could only sputter.

"Headmaster Dumbledore," he said.


	20. Time to Murder and Create

**A/N Disclaimers may be found in chapter one. Sorry this has taken so long, and thanks for your patience and support. I have just been released from hospital and am now home resting. The good news is that my oncologist thinks I am still in remission; the bad news is that I now have some other health issues to deal with. In a mirror of my own struggles, New Orleans also struggles on. On a brighter note, I was able to attend one day of the Jazz Fest, sitting in a wheelchair in the Gospel Tent, which was deliriously fun, and this election will soon be over (thank Merlin).**

**Only other disclaimer for this chapter; I've wanted an allusion to Warren Zevon in the HP universe ever since the introduction of the character of Remus Lupin.**

**Last author's note – only three chapters left.**

**TIME TO MURDER AND CREATE**

"Headmaster?" Harry whispered. "Is this a dream? Am I …" he didn't finish. _If I'm dead, Hermione will _kill_ me_. _Not to mention Remus._

"Not Headmaster any longer, Harry," Albus said, coming to sit down where Agnes had been earlier. "That position is held by Minerva, as you are quite aware. And not Professor, please, either. It has been so long since I have had a pupil. Just Albus, Harry. And to answer your questions, you are neither dreaming nor are you dead."

"But sir, you … I mean, Snape _killed_ you," Harry stammered. "I was _there_. You stupefied me," he said a little reproachfully.

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "Well, you were there, and Professor Snape did indeed cast a curse at me. But I'm afraid you only saw what you needed to see. You did not, in fact, partake of the legilmancy that was occurring between the two of us. Professor Snape gave me ample time to use an ancient and unique form of magic known here in Discworld as 'borrowing' so that I could come away to here, and decide whether it was necessary to return to Hogwarts at a later time."

"You mean … you're not _dead_?" Harry demanded. He attempted to sit up and again was rewarded with stabbing pain. "Why didn't you come back? We needed you. _I_ needed you."

Harry refused to make eye contact with his old mentor, and a long moment of silence evoked between them.

"There were reasons," Dumbledore said, unperturbed. "For one thing, Harry, I was uncertain as to what, exactly, would happen if I _did_ return to Earth. It might be that I _would_ simply die had I returned, and as it was, I was in a unique position to assist you.

"After all, how badly did things go? I knew that it was possible Severus would have to kill me. He had informed me of the Unbreakable Vow he had performed in order to protect both Draco and Narcissa Malfoy, and I was already aware of Voldemort's plans to use Draco to kill me. In the event, I had stockpiled enough information and organized the Order of the Phoenix so that you could function quite adequately without me. You, along with Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger, made an excellent team in locating and destroying the Horcruxes, and finally succeeded in ridding the wizarding world of its greatest enemy since Grindelwald. As it was, I was able to relay information via my portraits to Kingsley or to Minerva, and so on to you. We had a few discussions ourselves, as you will remember.

"I never thought, at the time, that you would ever join me here on Discworld. After I had spent some time roaming about the Discworld, I decided it would be best if I did, indeed, inhabit a painting here. For much of the past few years, I have inhabited a painting in the Patrician's palace, so that if Lord Vetinari has required advice, I have been able to give it."

There was a long silence in the room as they absorbed this information. Harry still refused to say anything, and the silence became a palpable force until Albus finally broke it.

"For what it is worth, Harry, I have tried to keep the balance here, as much as possible. It was not until two years ago that I became aware of the possibility of Death Eaters on Discworld. I first arranged that Commander Vimes be seconded to the Auror Division so that he could gain an awareness of their activities. When Commander Vimes later informed me that the activities of a likely group of Death Eaters were dramatically increasing, I asked Kingsley to see that you be sent here," Dumbledore said.

"So you set all this up?" asked Harry, bitterly.

"Hardly, Harry," Dumbledore replied, affably. "I had no idea that Peter Pettigrew had managed to find a way to Discworld. Indeed, I am still uncertain as to how he did so. The secret has long been kept from most, save the most diligent alchemists or arithmancers, and Peter was not known for his skills in either field. When I saw the possible havoc that Tom Riddle could cause here, I asked Kingsley that the most skilled auror with experience in fighting Tom Riddle be made available. There was only one person meeting that qualification."

"Why doesn't it ever stop? Why can't it just end?" Harry asked, looking at the ceiling.

"Perhaps that is why you are here now," said Dumbledore. "So that things _will_ end. And now I will leave you in the excellent care of Nanny Ogg and Ms. Nitt. I must go to see Esmerelda."

"Just one minute there, young feller-me-lad," Nanny Ogg spat. "I ain' too sure I want you around Esme, seein' what you already done to her."

"Ah, Mrs. Ogg," Dumbledore said smiling at her. "I think you had best leave Esmerelda to judge what she wishes by herself. I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss my relationship with Miss Weatherwax with you."

"Hang on," Harry said, as the penny dropped. "You're learning borrowing magic from her, aren't you? It's you who's caused the extra borrowing."

Agnes' breath came in sharply, as Albus smiled indulgently. She and Nanny Ogg exchanged glances. "It's on account of she's the other one, ain't it?" Nanny Ogg demanded.

"I do beg your pardon, Mistress Ogg?" Albus said politely.

"The other one. She's … the other one. I'm the Mother, Agnes here is the Maiden, and she's … the other one," Nanny Ogg said. "And you …"

"I really can't say, Mistress Ogg," Albus said, looking at the ground. "Perhaps we should just say that Mistress Weatherwax has the same desire for love that any other person has, and she is a better person for trying to find it in her own way."

His eyes twinkled as he smiled at Nanny Ogg.

"Now, Harry, I will be going to see Mistress Weatherwax, and see what we can do about … reconciling the situation. You would not happen to have that Honeydukes' chocolate, would you? Esmerelda is unaccountably not fond of lemon drops," Albus added.

"It's in my pack … I think that's in … Lancre castle?" Harry said. After another thought, he added, "I've been lying here the whole time forgetting about Angua and Carrot! Are they all right? Angua was hurt badly! I have to go to them!" He tried to get out of bed, but the room became dizzy and swam in front of him, and as he was about to hit the floor, he felt himself in the cold, thin, but strong arms of Nanny Ogg.

"They are fine, Harry. Both fine," Albus said. "I dropped off Commander Vimes at Lancre Castle before coming here to see you. Angua will require a bit more bedrest, but she regenerates quickly. Carrot appears completely unharmed. We can get the chocolates later, I think. I had best be off."

And without another word, he turned and walked out of the door. Presently they saw a broomstick fly through the air.

Harry moaned a bit, and Nanny Ogg looked at Agnes. "Give 'im another dose of scumble," she said. "Then go off to bed. I'll sit up the rest of the night."

"Are you sure?" Agnes began. "I don't-" she faltered under Nanny Ogg's gaze. "All right."

The liquid burned down his throat, and Harry settled back into unsettled sleep. Presently, the rain stopped. A long time later, he woke.

…

Hermione Granger spent her sixth consecutive morning hunched over the bog. Her breakfast – such as it was, a mere cup of weak tea – was coming back at full force. She moaned and clutched her at her stomach.

She knew what was wrong, of course; she wasn't the smartest witch of her generation for nothing. But she was terrified of what was going to happen now.

Six years ago, she had begged Harry to give her a baby, just in the event … well, in the event the final battle went wrong, she would still have a part of him. Harry had categorically refused; "plenty of time for that later," was all he would say. She thought she understood, but perhaps she never did. Did he fear that his child would grow up, as he did, in a home where he was unloved and neglected? Didn't he trust her enough to know she would never, ever, allow that to happen to their child? She still didn't have an answer. It was the one part of their relationship that involved more pressure than she was willing to risk, and she had long suspected that it was the reason Harry had not proposed. But now …

Hermione's first thought was to run to her mother. However, she soon discarded the idea. Her mother would be completely supportive; she and her father had been as open as they could be to a grandchild. There would be no problems, no worries. But mum … would expect Harry. And although Hermione had tried to explain that Harry was out on an assignment that would take him into the late autumn, she had been deliberately vague about what it was. It was best her parents did not know too much about the magical world, particularly about this aspect of it. She couldn't quite explain this to her. They would want, at least, some semblance of normality – and Hermione had to admit that Harry was as perfectly normal as could be around her parents, and that they lived in blissful ignorance about much of the horrors of the wizarding. Hermione was unwilling to prick that bubble, particularly now.

The Weasleys? Ron, she knew, would be incredibly supportive. He and Luna already had two toddlers, and they had also been very open about wanting playmates – "Other than those of my brothers," Ron had said, rolling his eyes exasperatedly. "We always hoped Fred and George would have children who would be as wicked as they were. And look here, they've got 'em. And they _love_ it. I'll tell you, the Ministry's never _seen_ such inappropriate charms as in that household. Far beyond mental, I'll tell you."

But telling Ron first … would be like taking out a front-page, banner headline in the _Daily Prophet_. He was excellent at keeping secrets concerning what they were doing during the Second War; Ron had been a vital part of all their plans, and his ability to manage in crisis was, she had to admit, profound. On more than one occasion he had proven his abilities at managing information and people and aided Harry – and herself – considerably.

But on this subject … Ron would be so excited he'd immediately tell Ginny, and Ginny would tell Bill and Charlie, who would tell Fred and George … and then. … Not Ron, then. She knew that he would probably hex her into oblivion for not being the first person (that is, after Harry, naturally) she told. But, as much as she loved and knew she would receive support from the Weasley family … not yet.

She wiped a tear from her eye and drool from her lips. Cleaning herself carefully, she stood unsteadily and walked into the living room, where her eyes lit on the picture of Tonks and Lupin, in their wedding finery. She put on a smock and lit the flue.

"Yes?" asked Lupin, home as usual.

"Uncle Remus? I need to talk to you and Aunt Tonks, tonight, please," Hermione said.

"Of course, Hermione. Is something wrong?" the werewolf's soft, perceptive eyes reached out for her.

"Umm … no, I mean, well, maybe, that is …" her voiced trailed off. After a second, she resumed with vigor. "I need to talk to you both, please."

"Shall I come over there right now?" Remus said, immediately alert.

"What? Now? No! That is, no. Tonight. We'll meet in the muggle world, please. Can we meet outside Oxford Street tube station, at 8 o'clock?" Hermione managed. It came in a rush.

"Certainly, Hermione. I'll try and inform Nymphadora, but to honest, you might have it easier getting in touch with her," Remus said. "Are you sure you'll be all right until then?"

"Yes, Uncle Remus," Hermione said. She managed a smile. "I always am."

…

A light rain was falling lazily, but it was still warm. "Just you, Uncle Remus?" she saw asked as she saw him walking through the streets of Soho towards her. "Nymphadora will be joining us, later," he said, quietly, bending down to give Hermione a peck on the cheek. His nostrils flared. "She told me you had called and told her where we were eating? There was some trouble, I think – something about a case running over-long."

"Yes, it's just a bit of a walk, but I feel I need it," Hermione said.

"As you say," Remus said. He companionably walked in step with Hermione. She took another look at Remus in his 'muggle garb'; he was so much better dressed than he usually was in the wizarding world. "I'd like to know your tailor," she said.

"Breecher's," he said. "Saville Row. One of the benefits of being married to Nymphadora."

A street urchin ran up and accosted them until Remus took one of the papers he was waving. "What is it?" Hermione sighed. _Another sex ad, like as not … why can't the muggle government do something about cleaning up Soho permanently?_

"Hmm … this appears to be a menu for a place called Lee Ho Fuk's over on Gerrard Street," Remus said. "The beef chow mein sounds good."

However, just the thought of Chinese unsettled Hermione's delicate stomach. "Um … er … ooh, not tonight," she said. "Just down Park Lane …"

They walked into Trader Vic's and were greeted by an affable maitre 'd.

"I have a booking," Hermione said. "Granger, party of three."

"Ah yes, here we are. Just in the back, I think, Miss Granger. If you will just follow me …"

The table she had chosen was well secluded, and the noise from the restaurant pulsated on the glass to make eavesdropping all but impossible. Nevertheless, Hermione discreetly pointed her wand under the table to cast a version of the _muffliato_ charm to further ensure privacy.

"Care for a drink?"

_Merlin, the waitress almost saw me. Better look as though I'm reaching for my purse._

Fortunately, Remus came to the rescue. "I'd like a pina colada, please. Two, actually, we're expecting a third."

"Umm … virgin colada for me, please," Hermione said. The waitress smiled and left, and presently the drinks arrived. Remus took a swig and looked indulgently at Hermione.

"Do you wish to tell me now, or do you wish to wait for Tonks?" Remus said politely.

"I think, that is, with all due respect, Professor, I'd prefer to wait for Tonks as well," she said.

Remus cocked an eyebrow at her and gave a subtle flare of his nostrils. "Of course, Hermione. But please, just Remus."

"Oh … of course, Remus," she said, distracted. _Why did I call him professor?_

"So you feel that you need a role model, father figure, or an authority figure right now," he replied.

_I didn't just say that out loud … is he using legilmancy?_ Hermione wondered.

Remus looked at her and gave a short howl of laughter. "Your thoughts are so written upon your face, Hermione, that I reckon everyone in this restaurant could guess them," he said. Hermione's face went ashen. "I assume that's why we're in with the muggles tonight? We're avoiding the wizarding?" Hermione gave a subtle nod and then looked up in shock to a slam that reverberated across the table.

The slam came from Tonks, as she dropped her purse on the table, her face a complete mask. "What's this, then?" she asked, poking at her drink.

"It's a pina colada, my dear. They are quite lovely," Remus said. "A nice rum beverage."

Tonks looked blankly and signaled for the waitress. "Double Jamison's. And make it two."

The waitress nodded and hurried off. There was an edge to Tonks' voice that wasn't usually there.

"What is it, Auntie Tonks?" Hermione asked nervously. This was not Tonks-like behavior.

The older woman said nothing, but played with a plait of her currently long, blue-black hair. The drinks arrived in record time; Hermione wondered if Tonks had subtly cast a charm on the muggle.

Tonks shot back an entire glass of whisky and slammed the glass on the table. Her hand fingered the second glass. "Lost one of our best today," she said. "Archibald Langsty. Investigating a suspicious muggle death. He was partnering me, and he just …" her voice trailed off, and she stared into nothingness.

_Oh god, that could have been Harry …_ Hermione couldn't help the few tears that began to trickle out.

"Look, I'm real sorry, okay?" Tonks asked. "It's just got me a bit screwed up right now. I'm sorry Hermione." She downed the second whisky, and signaled the waitress over again. "A Boddington's, please."

She turned to Remus, who was holding her hand, and smiled a wan smile. "It'll be okay, luv, I know. And I'm sorry again, Hermione, I know you wanted to talk with us about something, please go ahead. And here, you can have my drink, okay?"

"Um, no, I can't," she said. She sighed. This so wasn't going to work. She was about to break out in full tears, thinking about how Harry could have died tonight, and how he still might, and she didn't know what to do yet … maybe she should have just gone to her mum after all. "I … uh …" she stopped, fearing for what might come out.

"Come on, lightweight," Tonks prodded, trying to recover her sense of humor. "You've finished that one off, I've seen you pissed a lot more times than this would make you."

"Oh, yes, I mean, no," Hermione said, looking down. She had, indeed, finished her drink. "I uh, can't …" _what do I do?_

Again, it was Uncle Remus to the rescue. "She's not telling you that her first drink had no rum," Remus said. "And she can't have yours, since she's drinking for two."

Tonks' eyes went wide and then she squealed. "Oh bloody right! I get to be a right proper auntie with little Potters to play with!"

Hermione stared at Remus. "How did you know?"

"Even in my human form, I can smell it. A wolf's nose is even better than that of a dog, you know. Your pheromones are different. I knew almost as soon as we started walking. When we sat down, I could get a good smell of you, and realized why you wanted to meet with us," he said. "You're afraid, and worried about Harry, aren't you? But you're not very far along."

"No. I think only about seven or eight weeks," she said. "It must have been a little time before he left. I've only known – really known – for about a week now. The morning sickness has been … pretty severe."

Tonks, with the understanding that came from being a seasoned Auror, and having to tell parents that their dear little babies were no more, immediately understood.

"And you're worried about the fact that he doesn't know, and he's not here," she said, her eyes swiftly morphing into a misty sea-foam green. "You know he loves you, that he would always be here for you, and yet, he's not, is he? And the operation, tonight …" she quietly let her voice trail off. Hermione had tears running openly, now, although she made no sound.

"Remus, I'm going to take her to the ladies'. Order us something, we'll need to eat," Tonks said. She grasped Hermione firmly about the wrist and pulled her willingly into the loo. About twenty minutes later, they emerged, with Hermione restored to respectability, thanks to a few minor glamors.

Hermione seemed much more placid; Remus would have suspected a calming draught, were it not for his ability to smell them. Whatever Tonks had said had worked, and the old wizard had a feeling that Tonks had a powerful maternal instinct in her, that would have doted on children, had it not been for his … problem, as Harry and James had put it. Not for the first time, he wished he were different. That is, to be different, in a way in which he would be no different from anyone else. That different. Not _special_, like he was. _I'm sure Harry feels precisely the same way_, he thought. _We want to be different … to be normal. Other people are normal and want to be special … if only they knew._

"So, are you going to tell Harry?" he asked.

"Remus, I don't think so, not yet. I know this mission is important. If Voldemort really is going to try and come back, Harry needs to concentrate solely on that. I hate – really hate – keeping secrets from him, particularly this being his baby, but I think he needs to be full out right now. Am I wrong? Am I being hateful to him? I love him so much, but I don't want to break him, and I am so afraid that this would …" Hermione thought, deeply, and drank from a glass of water.

There was a pause and Remus stroked his chin. "I think you're right, at the moment, and when he flies off the handle, like he will, I'll be there to help put out the fire," Remus said. "You know, of course, that we are here to support you completely."

Hermione smiled and exhaled. "I know, Uncle Remus. I really needed to hear that. I haven't even told mum yet, and I'm terrified of having the rest of the wizarding world find out yet."

Tonks gave her a cockeyed smile. "Well, I can see your problem, luv, but I'm afraid it'll have to come out, you know. You probably have another eight weeks, maybe, before it'll be obvious to all and sundry. What have you planned on doing?"

Hermione's eyes looked down at the table. "I don't know, yet. What do you suggest?"

Tonks and Remus looked at each other, communicating with the silent expression of a long married couple, and the experience of Marauder and mate.

"We need to consider both Harry's need to know, your personal desire to control information, and also the fact that there are some remaining Death Eaters out there who might make you a seductive target," Tonks finally said, thoughtfully. "Come home and stay with us tonight, dear, and we'll start things in motion. This is what I think we'll need to do …"

…

Slowly, Harry made it out of bed, and stretched out the pain of waking up. The room, at least, had decided to stop moving around. He no longer felt the pain of a thousand shooting stars in his forehead. Harry closed his eyes and sat back down. Carefully guiding his magic around his body, he began to try and diagnose what might have happened – yesterday? Or was it longer than that? He did not know, anymore. He could feel the magic surging just below his pulse, and engaged in some mental relaxation exercises that had helped him overcome the legilmancy battles that he and Voldemort had engaged in years ago. Slowly, he could feel the magic subside. In his mind, he discerned that he had performed some sort of accidental magic, probably through instinct and self-preservation, which involved shielding him and his companions, and forming an air pocket. The downside was that it took so much energy it had effectively put him into a coma; the upside was that his sensing couldn't detect any permanent injuries or maladies.

Taking a few deep breaths later, he stood in the small house, opened his eyes and looked around. He had been stripped of his clothing, and he now pulled a small blanket around his waist, looking for something to wear. The house was full of Nanny Ogg's bric-a-brac, but nothing to show where his possessions were. He thought about a summoning charm, and decided against.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" he called out. The house appeared deserted, but the kettle on the kitchen stove was still billowing steam. He cautiously strode through a kitchen door to an outside porch, where he found Agnes Nitt pouring bucketfuls of hot water into an outdoor tub.

"Oh, you're awake," she said. "That's good – I was going to wake you myself. Come over here and get in the bath," she said.

Harry walked towards her and then stood rather stupidly. _Umm … should I … wait for her to go inside or tell her to turn around_, he wondered.

Agnes' eyes didn't leave his. "Get in the tub, I said," she said briskly. "Y' think you're the first male I've seen without his britches on? I'm a witch," she finished simply, as though that explained it all.

Harry closed his eyes, dropped the blanket and tentatively sat in the tepid water. Seconds later, his eyes flashed open as a bucket of steaming vapor was poured in, increasing the temperature considerably.

"What?" he said, startled

"Oh, I suppose you have hot-and-cold running water in Ankh-Morpork, then?" Agnes demanded. "We do things the old fashioned way, here. Now just wait there while I go get some salts."

Harry ran the water over his face and wiped the grime of the past few days' exertions off. Presently Agnes returned with a vial, which she poured into the tub. Almost immediately the water changed color to a deep mauve and began to fizz.

"Stay in that for at least another 10 or so minutes – longer if you can stand it," she said. "When you can stand no more, there's some clothes on the peg behind you. I'm going to bring Nanny her coffee."

"Thank you," Harry said. And he meant it. He hadn't been this clean since his arrival on Discworld, and whatever else the bathing salts were doing to him – he could feel it somehow doing more than just revitalizing his skin – they felt good.

"You're welcome," said Agnes, giving him a bit of a smile. "You're lucky you got me. If Nanny was here, you'd be getting all kinds of grief."

"What, she'd be telling me off about the past few days?" Harry asked with a smile.

"No. She'd be climbing into the tub with you," Agnes said, giving him a wicked smile. And to his shocked look of horrified comprehension she smirked and left for the kitchen.

…

It was nearly noon by the time Harry had arrived back at Lancre Castle. Upon his arrival, a page – Harry assumed he was a page because he was dressed in some attempt at livery; otherwise, he would have assumed that he was a degenerate loafer – informed him that Carrot was out attempting to organize something or other, which meant that Harry would have the pleasure of reporting to Vimes by himself.

He walked slowly up the tower steps to where the office had been set up. Vimes was sitting at a desk, already covered with paper.

"Come in, Potter," he said tersely.

"Sir," Harry said. He remained standing, as the only chairs in the room – other than Vimes' – were covered with parchments.

"Just move something and sit down," Vimes said, absorbed by his paperwork. "Trying to keep tabs on what's what at home while we deal with the Lancre situation."

"Yes sir," Harry said. He sat on a map of the Counterweight Continent.

"So you're fine," Vimes said. It was a statement. Not a question.

"I think so, sir. I'm not sure about everything internally, but I feel okay," Harry said.

"Need an Igor to check you out?" Vimes asked, looking at Harry carefully with a more serious look for the first time.

"No – no sir," Harry said. "It's the magic inside of me. It's … doing something. I'm not sure what. Whatever happened to us, I threw up some kind of spell in self-defense; I don't even know what it was. Since then, I get the feeling my magic is being a lot more guarded here. It's as if it has a mind of its own – trying to protect me, I think."

"Mmmm…" Vimes chewed on the end of a cheroot. "Perhaps you can discuss it with Dumbledore when you see him later. For now, tell me about the attack."

Harry took the next hour and gave his description of what he felt happened. Mostly Vimes nodded and occasionally prompted him when he faltered, but did not interrupt until the very end.

"So you're not exactly sure what you did, then?" he finally asked.

"No. I'm pretty sure Pettigrew hit the flagstone on the roof with a reductor curse, which broke it apart, and then he and his Igor left for – somewhere else, he said," Harry finished up. "I'm not sure where that was, and this is now – two days later."

"You'll be working with Albus on that," Vimes said. "Tomorrow you are to visit him at Esmerelda Weatherwax's cottage. She'll be able to locate them anywhere. And then, we will move in – the four of us – with Shawn, Albus, and the witches as backup. I think that will be enough to subdue them."

"How are Angua and Carrot?" Harry asked.

"Carrot's fine. Not a scratch on him. Angua will be fine by tomorrow," Vimes said. "She actually wasn't hit that hard, and although we don't generally let people know, she's been building up a tolerance to silver over the past few years." The senior Watchmen glanced down. "Did you know you're glowing yellow?"

Harry looked down at the clothes he was wearing and realized that the PDA was inside one of the pockets.

"That can only be Hermione," he said.

"Ah, that would be your lady friend?" Vimes said. "Carrot told me she was instrumental in getting us the information we needed about the stories generated on Roundworld."

"Yes sir, that's true," Harry said. "She helped me extraordinarily in the last war against Voldemort."

"And you haven't spoken to her since the assault on Pettigrew's hideout, I assume?" Vimes asked. Harry nodded. "What will you tell her?"

"I hate – I really hate – keeping secrets from her, but I think I have to, right now. I'm not sure what she would do if she knew the attack went so badly, or if she knew that Albus Dumbledore was here. She might try and come here, she might do anything," he said. "And Dumbledore wanted it secret. Throughout the first war, I always tried to follow his advice as best as I could, and I still respect that. If he hasn't given me permission to say anything, I don't think I should."

Vimes nodded. "I know it's tough, but it comes with the job," he said. "There are also things that I have to keep from Sybil – that's Lady Vimes, to you – and it always eats at me, but I know that she supports me, and I'm sure yours supports you. Go to your room and take what time you need to talk with her. After that, when Carrot returns, we'll assess our strategy before you go to visit Mistress Weatherwax."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, saluting. He strode out, formulating in his mind what he would say to Hermione.


	21. The Devil Knows You're Dead

**A/N The disclaimer and copyright notices in Chapter One should be reviewed.**

**In response to reviews, Ron is very much alive in this fic, he's been referred to in present tense throughout. (See Vimes' comments regarding the Duck Man.) Ron is just off-camera, as it's the middle of Quidditch season, and as the head coach of the division-leading Chudley Cannons, he's quite busy. Although Hogwarts plays Quidditch during the school year, of course, the professional Quidditch league runs concurrent with the British cricketing season, in this world. Or is it off-season, and Ron and Luna are out hunting crumple-horned snorkacks? I can't remember. Perhaps he'll make a cameo near the end, but Ron still hasn't learned how to leave me a proper phone message, muggle technology being what it is …**

**Thanks to all those who have kept reviewing and sent me words of encouragement. Rather more important thanks to the doctors and nurses of Ochsner Hospital and the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center for their help, treatment, support, encouragement and guidance.**

**THE DEVIL KNOWS YOU'RE DEAD**

Harry Potter had stared at his PDA so long that the imp resident in it finally opened the little hatch and stared back at him.

"Whaddya want for nothing? Rubber biscuit?" it demanded.

"I'm sorry?" asked a perplexed Harry.

"Well, do you want me to call up someone or not? The way yer just sitting there lookin' at me is freaking me out," the imp said.

"Sorry," Harry said, and put the PDA back in his jerkin. He rolled over on the bundle of straw that made his bedding. He stared through a hole in the wall that lacked glass for a window. His conversation with Hermione had been less than settling. It had, in fact, been awkward and difficult, one of the worst they'd had since their … _well, not married … but since we've been ... _together.

Neither he nor Hermione seemed to be able to speak; they both were, somehow, waiting for the other to try and start a conversation that never really began. Harry was trying not to admit that he had been on the losing end of an encounter with a Death Eater that could have claimed his partners' lives – or his own – and of course not to mention Dumbledore's presence, at all. He awkwardly claimed he was fine, in Lancre, they had solid leads on where Pettigrew was, and were soon to make an arrest.

Hermione probed as to how he 'knew' it was Wormtail, and that was when _Harry_ had to go into avoidance mode. He tried to return the favor by asking her about things at home, and that was when _she_ had gotten all edgy. At that point there wasn't anything _to_ say. They rang off, with Hermione subsequently breaking down in an emotional fit that ended with her first screaming at Remus Lupin, and then demanding that he go out and buy a gallon of chocolate mocha fudge ice cream for her (which he did). Harry moodily stared at his PDA, and then the wall. Sleep would not be forthcoming easy.

…

By the next morning, an extremely weary Harry made his way into the squad room. If he felt bad, Harry thought, Vimes looked worse. Harry reckoned he hadn't been to bed all night, but merely went from chair to chair.

"Right, Potter, you're to rendezvous with Dumbledore and Mistress Weatherwax today," Vimes said curtly. "I'm sure it's not going to be easy to get her to direct us to wherever your Grave Gourmands have moved on to, but she'll know it and eventually when you get her to tell us, we'll start out on the move. Carrot and I will be waiting for you to get back and let us know." Harry saluted and left Vimes' company, seizing his pack, and then receiving directions to Mistress Weatherwax's cottage from the Lancre groom (Shawn Ogg).

Harry set out on a borrowed horse whose name even Shawn didn't know. On the first part of his journey, he moodily tried to count all of the plants and birds and rocks and things as he made his way through the sandy hills, but finally he settled back into a stew under a light rain. The horse seemed to know the way to carry him through the Lancre countryside and in less than 30 minutes he found himself at a house on a high promontory overlooking Bad Ass. Dismounting, he let the animal graze and walked around until he found a door to the dim cottage. If he had been concerned about the location, he was relieved as he opened the door and the sun shone on an extremely large, if unorthodox, broom, with two recliners mounted on it.

His eyes blinked as he grew accustomed to the darkness, and then started as he realized that both Albus Dumbledore and Esmerelda Weatherwax were sitting in identical rocking chairs, eyes unfocused, staring into the distance.

"Headmaster Dumbledore? Miss Weatherwax?" Harry called, walking to his former teacher.

There was no response. He looked down and saw a note in Dumbledore's hands.

"'Neither am I.' What the heck does that mean? 'Neither am I' what?" Harry frantically looked around the room, and saw a sign in Nanny Weatherwax's hands.

"I aten't ded."

"Well, I suppose that explains _everything,_" Harry muttered to himself. He cautiously walked towards Nanny Weatherwax. Her eyes neither refocused nor did she show any sign that she noticed him at all. He looked carefully and saw that she was breathing exceedingly slowly. Far too slowly for any normal human to survive; if that was a regular person, they would require an oxygen tube to stay alive. Harry knelt, and cautiously put his fingers on her jugular vein. There was a pulse, albeit extraordinarily slow. As he touched her, the magic inside of him pulsated. He stepped back a bit.

"Don't know what that is," he said to himself, "but I reckon that's borrowing magic, whatever the heck _it_ is."

He rose and looking through the sparse cottage found a kettle, and went to light a fire and start boiling some water. He sniffed through several dubious parcels of food-related items before finding something that closely resembled tea, and a pot to brew it in.

"Finding everythin' all right, are ye?"

Harry nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned and saw Nanny Weatherwax, standing beside her chair.

"Miss Weatherwax!" he said. "You … you …"

"I'll have some o' that tea," she said, sitting down at a small table.

As Harry regained normal breath and heartbeat, the kettle began to whistle. He poured the water into the pot and brought it to the table. Nanny Weatherwax had produced some cups from somewhere or other and they waited for the tea to steep. Harry glanced back at Albus.

"He's fine. He's still watchin' them," she said. "Figured you'd get here around now and I'd need to get back to explain it all to you."

"Er, yes," Harry said. He took a breath. "So that's borrowing."

"We're Borrowin', yes," Nanny Weatherwax said.

"So you taught it to Headmaster Dumbledore, then?" Harry asked.

"I don't teach nothin'," she snapped. "Never have. But some people ken learn it."

Harry decided the best thing to do was just nod. "What exactly do you do?" he asked carefully.

"We borrow, from different thins, mosly when we're movin' around I borrow from the birds, since they got a better field of view," she said.

"You mean depth perception?" Harry asked.

"No, they gotta better view of the fields, flyin' so high up," Nanny replied. "Ye can see where ye wants to go and hitch somewhere else then, if there's another place ye got to go. But it takes time, you have to learn to get in and get out, not to bother the animal, and to remain stuck there, but to come back to yerself. Anyway, we were usin' some kestrels. Albus is looking in on 'em now. You gonna pour out or not?"

Harry remembered, frightened, of the first time Hermione's grandmother had asked him to 'pour out.' It was a ritual in British tea drinking – and manners – that one never forgot, regardless of therapy. He held his breath and carefully made a cup of tea for Nanny Weatherwax, and was unsurprised when she took it black, as he did himself.

"Hmm … well, leastwise you seem to make a decent cup o' tea," she said, seemingly mollified. Harry exhaled, opened his pack and took out some of the Honeydukes chocolate and passed it over to her.

"What's this, then?" she sniffed at it.

"It's chocolate, Miss Weatherwax, made in Hogsmeade Village. Head- Albus Dumbledore, I mean, thought you might find it nice," Harry said.

She dutifully opened a bar and took a small bite, then a larger one.

"Well, it'll do, I reckon," she said. Harry noted that she might only have said "it'll do" but was consuming the chocolate at a quick pace.

"Ah! Is there any tea left in that pot?"

Harry turned, startled, to see Albus smiling and walking towards him.

"Headmaster!"

"Come, Harry, I do keep asking you to call me Albus," said the old wizard, drawing up a chair at the table. A new cup had appeared and Albus helped himself to a bar of chocolate. For a few moments, the three simply sat quietly and took their tea.

"What is borrowing magic, sir?" Harry finally asked.

"Well, Harry, we borrow the use of the senses and thoughts of other creatures, using them to help inform us of what they see and experience," Albus said.

He considered this. "You mean it's like imperius curse, or legilmancy?" Harry asked.

"That is well-thought out Harry, though not technically accurate. Potentially, I suppose, if one abused one's power, one might eventually achieve the same results as legilmancy, or perhaps you could force the animal to do something akin to the imperius curse," Albus said. "But as Esme teaches it, we are borrowing – not in control, we are _borrowing_ from the animal so that it still maintains its independence. It is not legilmancy – we are physically present in the mind, not burrowing for memories of the past, though they are there, too. No, in borrowing magic, you exist solely as a passive participant in the animals' current active thoughts and feelings.

"It is vital to know when to pull out – for example, you would not wish to be in the mind of a mouse that has just gotten caught by an owl. Also, you must be careful not to push the animal further than it would naturally go, exhausting it, leaving it vulnerable to predators or men. We 'borrow' just enough to let us see what we need, and then hop out of the mind of the animal, into another one, as we need. A delicate balance and partnership, when performed correctly."

Harry considered this. "It still sounds a _bit_ like the imperious, though," he said.

"Well, Harry, I would suggest that it the imperious curse, particularly as utilized by Death Eaters, is akin to performing delicate invasive surgery with a blunt instrument," Albus replied, sipping his tea. "Our means of using this magic was extremely haphazard. As Esmerelda teaches this craft, it is extraordinarily delicate and filled with nuance."

"And yet, it still _sounds_ like an imperious curse," Harry retorted. Although sorely tempted, after he believed Albus Dumbledore to have died, throughout his long battle with the dark, he had never resorted – not even when risking death at the hands of Lord Voldemort himself – to using the Unforgivable Curses. Twice in the long days leading up to the final battle, the imperious curse had been used on those close to Harry in attempts to kill him or his friends. He had never forgiven Bellatrix Lestrange, and saw to it that she never saw the Dementor's Kiss – but not by using spells. He had also vowed privately to never, ever use Unforgivable spells on other people himself, despite the temptations to do so.

Albus frowned, slightly. Harry knew the expression well, though it had been years since he had seen it. "Harry, have you known me to intentionally dabble in the dark arts, or to cause ill-will to any being?" he asked.

"No sir," Harry said, respectfully. "Both Firenze and Hagrid impressed upon me how much you cared for all living things – human, elf, or otherwise. I remember at your … well, your funeral, how so many different peoples came together. It was as if the mountain of magical brethren that used to be in the Ministry of Magic had come to life; all were equally represented. It was a shame that it took death to do that."

"Mmm, well, yes," Albus said, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "Still, what I think I have learned from Esme is something far, far removed from the imperius curse; it is, instead, a way of seeing all points of view, of all things. And what I would hope that I have learned is to continue to use that way of seeing not to influence others, but to influence myself, in seeking greater harmony with all."

Harry remembered a heated debate he had had, years ago, with Albus, about the nature of his fight with Tom Riddle, and the prophecy, and the difference between being led to an arena and entering it on one's own terms. "Perhaps so, Headmaster," Harry said diffidently. "I do not know this magic, but I can see where greater harmony would be a good thing in the world. After all, it is our choices that make us, and choosing harmony is good."

Albus' eyes positively twinkled, and his hand reached a small portion of the chocolate bar which Nanny Weatherwax had clearly saved for him. He bit into it slowly and smiled. "In the event, Harry, you will not learn it immediately, anyhow. We have already ascertained where Pettigrew, Igor and Moulder, and the others are."

"Moulder?" Harry asked.

"Ah, yes, Moulder is a dwarf who they have conned into working for them, a dwarf who knew the workings of the printing press. It was Moulder who came up with using the power of the press to spread the word of a messianic leader," Albus explained. "In addition, there are the usual hired henchmen – lower on the rungs than even the most useless Death Eaters, apparently – that seem to congregate around more powerful thugs. But all in all, I expect little from them. It is Lord Voldemort whom we must concern ourselves with, and who I fully expect shall be resurrected tonight."

"Where are they?" Harry asked.

"In a wind-swept temple, once currently abandonded and now in use by the History Monks," Albus said. "The temple itself has been in complete disrepair and constant use and maintenance for the past present. Although I am not an expert on the history of the Disc as such, I am told that it was instrumental to the History Monks in their little matter of the Battle of Koom Valley. As a result, the temple is used to, collapses from, and exists in spite of and because of, spatial and temporal flux. I believe it will be conducive to the final reanimation of Lord Voldemort, and their last, choicest, fat has already been prepared."

Harry was unwilling to attempt to unravel the logistics behind this linguistic travesty, and instead limited himself to ask a question that was germane. "How long will it take us to get there?" he asked.

"If you return to Lancre Castle and assemble the party now, and everyone is on horseback, it should take about three hours to proceed there," Albus said. "Esme and I will use borrowing to lead you to the side with an eagle's-eye view."

"Nope," said Nanny Weatherwax, speaking up for the first time.

"I do beg your pardon, Esme," Albus said.

"Gon' be crows," she said. "Ain't no eagles roun' here now. We're gonna have to make due with a crow or a jackdaw."

"Crows'-eye view, then," Albus said cheerfully. "We will have to stay here to use the borrowing, so we will lead you up to a point where you can see the temple, and at that point we will mount brooms and come after you. Since we can fly much faster, we should be able to meet you at a spot quite near the Temple just as you arrive."

"In other words, the time is now," Harry said. "I should get Commander Vimes and we should prepare to leave." He rose from the table.

"Oh yes. Very much so," Albus said," continuing his tea calmly.

"Aren't you coming?" Harry asked.

"We will wait for you to get together and guide you," Albus said, imperturbably. "I see no reason to return with you, only to come back this way. Esme and I will use the broomstick, after all, as I have no doubt, will the other witches. We will see you when we see you."

…

Harry rode back to Lancre castle, and dismounting, found Commander Vimes just where he had left him a few hours earlier, issuing commands.

"I don't care what de Worde will say about it, Buggy, just get a message to Pessimal that they're not to let the Thieves' Guild …" his voice trailed off as Harry walked into the room. "Found them?" Harry nodded.

"Right, Buggy, get that off then. Carrot and Angua are eating lunch. Had anything to eat today?" Vimes asked.

Harry shook his head.

"Right, let's get some food and afterwards we'll get the party ready," Vimes said.

The group ate quickly and silently, a meal of boiled meat, or of potatoes (Angua).

"Don't leave anything out," Vimes said, as they began to organize the materials they would bring with them to the showdown.

Harry smiled. "Yes, it's not as if we have little elves around..."

Angua shrieked. Vimes looked bug-eyed. Then all hell broke loose.

The Fair Folk, as they preferred to be called, existed just outside the dimensions presented by Discworld; however, their magic allowed them to take advantage of any causal event created by narrative imperative. Harry's speaking their name was a blanket invitation.

The elf popped into existence in the tower room before Harry finished his sentence, and immediately set to finding minds he could inhabit and get to call more elves to join him. Angua, Carrot and Vimes presented such seductive targets, he took them over immediately. He then turned, to see his unwitting benefactor. And that was where it all went wrong for Mr. Elf, since he didn't know that Harry Potter was immune to the imperious curse, as he began to try and invade his mind.

As it turned out, elf magic on Discworld took a form that Harry was very familiar with: it reminded him _exactly_ of legilmacy lessons with Severus Snape. The elf seemed curious; what interesting new kind of mind _was_ this? It wondered if-

The thought got stuck mid-neuron.

Harry grasped elf by his throat, and picked him up off the ground and slammed him into the stone wall. The elf's head made a very satisfying "ping" that seemed to echo through the tower.

"Do I have your attention?" Harry asked. "I hope I have your attention. Because the last person who thought he could fool around in my head is was cut into 15 pieces and left for the carrion scavengers. Now do I have your attention?"

Harry's grip was asphyxiating; the elf was turning blue. He couldn't speak but managed a nod.

"If you or any or your pathetic kin or your friends so much as let their shadows fall near me, I am going to do this to you," Harry said. Thinking carefully about documentaries he and Hermione had watched about the Holocaust, he countered the elves' occulmency and pushed in visions of mass murder, death, destruction, the true horrors of war and genocide.

Elves loved human suffering; they lived for it. But what the elf was experiencing was beyond anything any it had ever imagined in its most horrific daydreaming. And this … human, if that was what it was … certainly seemed capable of it … it gibbered its acquiesence towards Harry.

"Get the hell out of here and if the sun sets on your ass and you're still around, I will personally take great pleasure in eviscerating you and destroying anything you hold dear," Harry said.

The elf shot through the window hole of the tower, and it ran through the briars, then it ran through the brambles, cutting through bushes too thick for even hares to manage, at a pace that Lancre's most vigourous hunting dogs couldn't match.

As it did, Angua, Carrot and Vimes breathed back into consciousness.

Angua slapped him on the arm. "Don't SAY that word," she hissed.

"Yes, thank you," Harry said quietly. "I do realize that now. Anyway, I've taken care of it. So. Are we going?"

They were.

…

"Once more with confidence and feeling," Harry muttered to himself.

He had been riding the horse for two-and-a-half hours. Despite his ride up to Lancre, he still was sure he didn't like horses. Angua, Carrot and Vimes seemed fine. Shawn Ogg was sitting on a horse that seemed as large as a small elephant. Far above, Albus and Esme rode on his absurd broom, leading the other members of the Lancre coven. Harry continued to go over the numbers and the deployment of their positions; with luck, they would interrupt Wormtail before he managed to complete the resurrection of Lord Voldemort, and the group would be taken into custody without trouble.

So he hoped.

More realistically, Harry was trying hard to think through how he could manage to stop Lord Voldemort and his minions without resorting to magic, if the ritual was completed. He had given his pledge not to use magic, and although he was sure the witches would use it, their familiarity and connection to Discworld would allow them to harness its power without affecting their allies. Harry wasn't so sure that he would be capable of preventing collateral damage.

In the distance, through the mists, he began to see the temple area take shape. It seemed to flicker and morph into shapes by itself; now it appeared much like Stonehenge; simple, abandoned stone pillars with no roof, open to the night sky. Then it was a completed complex, not only with walls and berm, but also painted lurid colors. Periodically the structure seemed to burn and collapse; Harry was equally sure he could glimpse on occasion workers striding through the complex, before they, too, would vanish.

The magic began to crackle about him. "This is dangerous, Commander Vimes," Harry said. "There has been too much magic used here. It is distorting the space-time continuum on a grand scale."

Vimes lit a new cigar and took an experimental puff, before nodding. "We dismount here," he said curtly. "Don't want the horses turning into starfish or something."

As they set the horses into a slovenly hedge, the witches swooped to the ground and dismounted their brooms. Vimes looked at them warily. "How many are they?" he asked Dumbledore.

"Fourteen, not including Lord Voldemort," Albus said. "He is not here ... but they are trying hard. Let us press on."

Vimes nodded. "Angua, you and Shawn Ogg on the left. Carrot, you on the right. Potter, you and I in the middle. Ladies, you and Albus behind us. Officially, this is an arrest. I don't think they'll come quietly but we should give them the option."

With everyone in place, the group quietly made its way out of a thicket into a clearing. From time to time, Harry saw, a rivulet swelled into a creek and then into a river. However, just as he thought they would have to ford across, the group flickered into a time stream in which the river was no more than a damp patch in the earth. This time zone also coincided with the temple in one of its more prominent phases; although the walls and ceiling were not complete, the pillars that held up the roof were massive, thicker around than a very stout man, and at least forty feet high. Harry touched one with his hand, experimentally. The pillar was in the same time zone, and was of a very stout alabaster marble.

Now the group quietly came upon the figures chanting across an altar. Harry could recognize the fat, lumped into a vague man-shape on the altar; an Igor had connected wires to several electrodes surrounding it. The dwarf was equally recognizable, reading out from a small pamphlet - clearly one that had been printed for the Ankh-Morpork crowd - to the huddled group of Grave Gourmands. Harry noted that most of the henchmen appeared to be listening intently, but not holding pamphlets; perhaps they couldn't read.

Peter Pettigrew had his back to them as they walked in. There was a general muttering between Pettigrew and the Igor; whatever was happening, it didn't seem that the small group could quite generate enough belief. There was an occasional spark between the electrodes, but it didn't seem to do much.

Vimes looked at his team; they nodded curtly. He broke somber service with a strident cry. "Ankh-Morpork City Watch! You are under arrest!"

Pettigrew whirled. "Get them!" he shouted at the Grave Gourmands, who attempted to muster a front. Pettigrew whipped out a wand and attempted a spell, but found himself frozen. Harry felt the energy of magic sent out by the witches to contain him. With the witches holding their leader powerless, the Grave Gourmands hesitated.

Hesitating during a werewolf attack is not recommended, particularly when Shawn Ogg and Carrot Ironfoundersson are flanking one.

As a result, the Grave Gourmands were bashed into a pile quickly. Vimes looked with satisfaction. "That wasn't so bad, was it now, Potter?" he asked.

"No sir, not bad at all. We were lucky that they weren't able to get Lord Voldemort back; I truly believe he would have made the difference," Harry said.

Whoops.

Perhaps it was irony that Tom Riddle and Harry Potter, joined as they were via a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the myriad other connections Harry had been subject to, would require one more unification. On earth, Harry's simple statement would passed without comment. But Discworld ran on narrative imperative.

The final bit of belief - the final spark needed to resurrect Lord Voldemort - passed into becoming from Harry's mind. And potential became reality.

Electric sparks filled the air, flashing power throughout the air. It knocked down the witches, whose control over Pettigrew was voided. Eldritch power echoed through the temple, and the fat formed into shape. The shape took energy. The energy took motion.

The resurrection was complete.

Lord Voldemort lived again.

Seconds later, power shot through them; Harry could feel it - the Cruciatus Curse. Accustomed to it by this point, he turned and fought back.

"Again, and again, Harry Potter," came a sneering cry from Voldemort's thin lips. "But this time, I have the advantage!'

Blazing fire shot from Voldemort's fingertips, engulfing the Watchmen. Carrot, who had moved behind to apprehend Pettigrew, was caught by a curse from Wormtail. The Watchmen could hardly breath and were knocked to the ground. Voldemort laughed triumphantly.

Harry rolled into Vimes. Vimes looked at him and spat. "Potter! You're fired!" he said.

Harry blinked. Then he turned on his stomach and raised his hand with one motion. "**AVADA KEDADRA**!" he shouted.

The temple was engulfed in an explosion of green light. Voldemort looked down and then back at Harry, who was standing.

"Do you not see how I have taught you well, Potter?" Voldemort said. "That's the first time you've ever attempted to use an Unforgivable Curse on me, isn't it, little Harry? You had to use a pathetic muggle weapon the first time you killed me. But your aim is no better now than it was then."

"My aim was fine," Harry said.

"And yet I am still alive, Potter," Voldemort sneered. He raised his hand; octarine fire dripped from his fingertips.

"I. Wasn't. Aiming. At. You." Harry managed to spit out.

Voldemort's eyes widened. Slowly, he turned to see the column behind him toppling over, its base blasted into atoms from the killing curse. Thirty tons of marble crashed into him.

"MR. RE?"

Lord Voldemort turned. The scene seemed to be in slow-motion. "My name is Voldemort," he said.

"I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION YOU WERE SOME KIND OF AN ENIGMA OR PUZZLE."

Tom Riddle stared at the skeleton before him. He wore a black shroud, and carried a scythe that gleamed. "No, but I admire your tailor. Henceforth I will see to it that my Death Eaters have your look. It will inspire fear."

"AND WHAT DOES IT INSPIRE IN YOU, TOM RIDDLE?

"You will stop calling me by that abhorred muggle name," Voldemort said. "I am Lord Voldemort!"

"NO, I'M AFRAID NOT. YOU SEE, AS MUCH AS YOU MAY DISDAIN IT, IT IS THE NAME YOUR SOUL WENT BY."

"My soul? Yes, indeed. I must split it and create a horcrux at once," Voldemort said. He seized a piece of marble, glanced randomly at Carrot, and shouted, "Avada Kedadra!"

Nothing happened. There was a brief pause.

"YOU WERE EXPECTING SOMETHING DRAMATIC, I TAKE IT?"

"What is this? I can not feel the magic," he said.

"PERHAPS IT DOES NOT WORK NOW THAT YOU ARE DEAD?"

"Dead? Again?" Voldemort sighed. "Very well, another time to wait for my immortality. Wormtail will have me re-born in a matter of hours, and I'll make sure to hide a horcrux quickly, this time."

"I'M SORRY TO SAY THAT HE HAS PREDECEASED YOU. THE DEPUTY WATCHMEN USED A MACE, I BELIEVE. REGARDLESS, I WILL NOT PERMIT YOU TO ESCAPE ME THIS TIME, TOM RIDDLE. IT ENDS HERE. THERE IS NO-ONE WHO WILL BRING YOU BACK FROM WHERE I WILL SEND YOU NOW."

"But … but I am Lord Voldemort!" the shade began to grow translucent.

"AND YOU ARE ALSO VERY DEAD. IT IS TIME NOW. GO."

The scenery changed. Into dust. Into an empty, forboding, cold desert. There was no one, no thing; no moon, no rock to break up the endless expanse of sand. It took several millennia for the man who styled himself Lord Voldemort to realize it, and several more millennia for the message to sink in: that he would be doomed to exist in enternity in much the same way he had in life: Alone.

The shade of Tom Riddle vanished. Death walked to Albus Dumbledore, standing calmly in the back of the party, as he had the entire time.

"Don't. Ye can't," Esme Weatherwax spat.

IT IS NOT MY CHOICE, MISTRESS WEATHERWAX. IT IS MY DUTY.

"I am not afraid," Albus said, smiling, to Esme. "Indeed, my life has been far too prolonged as it is. This is but the next great adventure, and frankly, one I am happy to begin."

"Fer yew, maybe!" Esme shouted back.

"Perhaps … a brief moment could be managed?" Harry asked. The seven-foot-tall skeleton turned and looked down upon him, its empty eye sockets glowing with the secrets of the universe.

"PERHAPS."

Death walked over and and studied the body of Wormtail minutely. Harry looked at the face of his former headmaster, the wizard whom he respected and loved as his teacher above all others. For a second time in his life, Harry felt his time wasted; so many questions unanswered. Perhaps, he reflected, they didn't have to be. "Be seeing you," Harry finally said, smiling.

"I hope so, Harry," Albus said. He turned to Esme. Harry turned away. This time was not for him.

There was a monment of silence over the grounds. Afterwards, there was a slight clearing of a throat. "Well, then, I shall be glad to get on my way," Albus said. "Tempus fugit, after all."

"THERE IS JUST ONE THING, HEADMASTER."

"Yes, what is it?" he asked.

"MAY I HAVE A LEMON DROP?"

Albus' expression became beatified. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wisp of paper, which he carefully unfolded to reveal several boiled sweets. He carefully poured out the lemon drops into Death's hand. As he did so, the sparkling in his eyes flashed into shining gleams, and Albus Dumbledore was gone.

Death placed a lemon drop into his skeletal mouth and chewed it. Where it went, we cannot say, but it did not simply drop through the hole in the back of his mouth onto the ground.

Esme Weatherwax went and sat down by herself. Her expression dared anyone to come near her, to say even one word of comfort to her.

"Now what?" Harry asked. He shivered, and felt a bit cold. He didn't know that he looked, at that moment, scores of years older than his true age; but it was true that he felt weight on his shoulders, as if a million burdens had found a new home to sit and press down upon.

Vimes' look was one of unmistakable sympathy. Then a mask took hold of the old watchman's face again. "Now we finish up the job, lad, and go home."


	22. The Girl With The Long Green Heart

**A/N**

Please begin by reviewing the disclaimers in Chapter One.

After thought, this is the end, ladies and gents. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. An edited version of this will soon go up at Portkey (explanation below). It's been fun writing and I hope everyone's enjoyed it. Our hero gets his just rewards soon …

**The Girl with the Long Green Heart**

_**Three Weeks Later**_

Harry came back to himself. He had worked on this sufficiently to be able to arrive first, and after slowly stretching out the soreness in his limbs, he walked over to the kettle to make tea.

This had become the routine that he and Nanny Weatherwax – for now so he called her – had settled upon. Now that he could borrow by himself, and return by himself, he would return first, put the kettle on, and then they would discuss things.

Nanny Weatherwax claimed she didn't teach things – and perhaps she didn't – but Harry felt he'd learned a great deal from her. Which was why today was so difficult; he and Nanny Weatherwax both knew it was the last time they would be borrowing together.

Harry had already packed his things and soon would be leaving for Ankh-Morpork, and as they both knew, soon for destinations beyond that. Places that once held Albus Dumbledore, but places that would never known Esmerelda Dumbledore. Still, a woman is permitted to dream.

She came back late. Harry had expected it and did not mention it. He had finished an entire pot of tea by himself and had a second brewed by the time Nanny Weatherwax finally decided to join him at the table.

"So that's it, then," she finally said, after finishing her first cuppa.

"Yes, Nanny," he said obediently.

"You kin remember all that," she said. It was a statement, not a question. Most wizards or witches would never learn the intricate nuances of borrowing in a mere fortnight's time. Harry was not most wizards. "Yes, Nanny," he said.

There was silence. It stretched out before them, asking, many times wistfully, questions about Albus Dumbledore. How well did you know him? How well did I know him? How well do my friends know me? Harry stared at the clouds of cream billowing in his tea. Did he understand Hermione Granger as well as he understood Tom Riddle? Did Ronald Weasley present him with as many difficulties as did Peter Pettigrew? Was the complexity of Remus Lupin more than that of Bellatrix Lestrange?

Harry had no answers to his questions. And the fact that he didn't disturbed him more than anything.

"What'll ye do then?" Nanny Weatherwax finally asked, pouring herself a second cup.

"Go back. Go on," Harry said. "We both know I'm not ready yet for … for that. I'll think about it. Try to decide how I can do it. I've got to do it my way, and I need to think about it some more, first. But I'll go on."

Nanny Weatherwax took a sip of her tea and nodded. "Ye can only do the best ye can, no one can ask more of ye than that. But you don't have to it alone, mind. Not like me."

"No, Nanny," Harry said.

"So you do what you need to, then," she said.

"Yes, Nanny. But as much we say so, neither of us is ever truly alone, are we?" he asked. It might have been a question too much, he thought. Be damned if he wasn't going to ask her.

Nanny Weatherwax glared at him. She said nothing, and ignored the question.

But she didn't really ignore it. And they both knew she didn't ignore it, and let it go.

"Time you were movin' on," she said, finishing her tea. "I'll tell Magrat and Gytha."

"Give them my best, Nanny," Harry said. "If I fail from now on it's my own stupidity. You and Albus have taught me more than anyone has a right to know. I don't really know how to thank you."

"I think ye just did," she said. It was said that Nanny Weatherwax never smiled, but perhaps a small crinkle at the side of her mouth was just that. A boy can dream, too.

Harry set down his mug, and strode towards the door. He paused, and returned to the table, and embraced Esmerelda Weatherwax.

"I never truly had a mother. Or a grandmother," he said. "Thank you, Nanny. I love you." He kissed her on the forehead, gently.

"Go on, now, be off with ye," Nanny Weatherwax said. The door closed.

Presently, Esmerelda Weatherwax made her way to her familiar rocking-chair, and picked up the sign that always read 'I ain't ded'. And, many fields away, a fox awoke from a mid-morning slumber to exult in the smells and sounds of the day. Meanwhile, a single drop of water struck the ground near Nanny Weatherwax's chair. Perhaps it was a leak in the roof. But it might have been a single tear.

…

As Harry settled himself onto the broom, he gazed again in wonder at the touches Albus Dumbledore had placed on this tandem. Despite warming charms and thick cloaks, Harry had always frozen at great heights, and occasionally had suffered 'broomstick bum' from hours of riding or quidditch. But Albus broom … what a brilliant piece of work – a windscreen and the recliner made it so comfortable that he could have flown it for days.

The broom had nowhere near the speed of his old Firebolt, or the new Lichtenberg he was riding these days, since he had committed to helping Victor Krum's new broom-making enterprise. The Lichtenberg's handling was marvelous, although Harry made a mental note to discuss windscreens with Victor soon after he returned home.

The 'Pride of Portree' had reasonable acceleration, as Harry achieved near to what he reckoned to be 300 feet of altitude, and close to 100 miles per hour. With the clacks towers to follow back to Ankh-Morpork, Harry settled back to enjoy a relatively peaceful broomride, and look pensively out over the Disc.

He was thinking about his last conversation with his commanding officer.

"Right, Potter, let's apprehend the rest, and we'll get a cart here…" Vimes had started.

"I'm going to take Miss Weatherwax back to her cottage, sir, and then stay with her a bit," Harry replied. He hadn't even looked at Vimes.

"**_What_** did you say, Lance-Constable?" spluttered Vimes.

"I'm not a Lance-Constable, sir. You fired, me sir," Harry said, slightly reproachfully.

"That was a matter of semantics, Potter. You needed to use your magic. I understood that. You understood that. Very well, if you wish to be pedantic," Vimes said, testily. "You're re-hired."

"No, sir," Harry said, politely but firmly.

"I beg your pardon, Potter?" Vimes said. His jaws were clinched as tight as Harry had ever seen Shacklebolt's.

"Headmaster Dumbledore asked me to stay with Mistress Weatherwax for a few weeks," Harry said politely.

"You do realize, don't you Potter, that he is no longer your headmaster? Surely, you can't be serious." Vimes said in exasperation.

"I am serious, sir. And stop calling me Shirley," Harry said, smiling. "But Headmaster Dumbledore didn't say to _stop_ following his orders merely on the account of his death."

Vimes sighed and then thought about the abhorred broomstick.

"It seems to me, Potter, that you can fly that damned infernal thing back to Ankh-Morpork in a few hours," Vimes said. "Carrot, Angua and I will take about a fortnight back. Accordingly, I will plan to see you in 12 days at Psyuedoplis Yard."

"Three weeks, sir," Harry said firmly. "It's just 24 days. It'll give you a chance to ensure everything's settled in, and you can always send a clacks if I am needed immediately."

Vimes opened his mouth to retort and then shut it. "Very well, Lance-Constable. I expect to see you early in the morning of 9th of Grune in my office.

"Yes, Sir."

These thoughts – and their probable fall-out – made Harry's five-hour ride seem much quicker. He landed at the Tower of Art at near twilight, and turn in his broom to Ponder Stibbons.

"We never did get the hoops up," Stibbons said as he took back the broom. "And did Professor Dumbledore?" His voice trailed off. He knew, but he asked for the look of the thing.

"Is on to the next great adventure, Mr. Stibbons," Harry replied gravely. "I'm going to report to Pseudopolis Yard in the morning, Mr. Stibbons, and at some point I will be returning to Roundworld. The Watch will be in touch."

"And Voldemort?"

"Is no longer a problem, Mr. Stibbons."

"Very good, Mr. Potter."

…

Harry had returned to the quarters he shared with Carrot and Angua, and found his room and effects as he had left them. When his roommates returned later that evening, Angua got three Klatchian hots and Carrot had Cherie bring some beers. The four Watchmen didn't say much to each other. There wasn't much to say. But it was an important ritual, nonetheless. There was some unspoken understanding that Harry's meeting with Vimes in the morning was going to go awkwardly, and that it had to go awkwardly. But among the Watchmen … there was an understanding. The job had been done. And it had been done as well as it could be. And that was worth celebrating, just among themselves.

Harry accompanied Carrot and Angua to the Psuedopolis Yard the next morning in full uniform. His meeting, in Vimes' office, did not begin as he expected.

"How does the record-keeping go at your auror's office" Vimes asked.

"Record-keeping, sir?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Yes, Potter, record-keeping. If you had suspected Voldemort was going to escape to the Disc, where would you have gone to look for evidence?" Vimes asked, looking at Harry sharply.

Harry's mind went back to the thaumic chart at Unseen University. "Er … I really am not sure about that, sir," he asked, completely truthfully. _What would we have done? _Harry thought. _Did Shacklebolt have some kind of records that I didn't have access to?_

"And even if you did know what to look at, would you know what to look for?" Vimes asked.

"No, sir," Harry replied.

"Potter, in your last few days with us – assuming you wish to stay with this force and go out on good terms – I'd like you to work with my adjutant, Corporal Pessimal," Vimes said. "Pessimal is in charge of all our paperwork and records. He looks at records and keeps statistics to try and predict crimes before they happen. I think that might be a useful thing for you to learn. I, personally, still haven't learned how to do it well. Which is why Pessimal is my adjutant."

Harry nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. And it _was_ a good suggestion. Harry knew that routine was an important thing he had to learn – and clearly Vimes had figured out a method that was working here. Now that Voldemort was gone, this would be an important lesson to bring back to Lon- Roundworld.

"In any event, did we ever learn how Voldemort got here?" Vimes asked.

"No, sir. The impression of the wizards at Unseen University is that it was via narrativium, which doesn't exist in my world," Harry said. "Albus also said that arithmancy was key, and that Pettigrew didn't know much arithmancy. Voldemort did, however. I'd guess the wizards at the University left some type of thaumic residue with which he could work out the arithmancy. Regardless, very few people know of Discworld, and it's not likely anyone else is going to come strolling here again."

"In any event, I think we will need some kind of point of contact in the event it happens," Vimes said. "With Albus Dumbledore's portrait empty, in the event someone did come to disrupt, it's vital we have a method of communicating. I'll ask Lord Vetinari to see if Archchancellor Ridcully would be able to work on that."

"I see, sir," Harry said.

"What about your lady friend, Hermione? Did she have any ideas?" Vimes asked.

Harry looked down at feet. "I don't know, sir, I haven't spoken to her since that brief period in Lancre Castle, and that was a very short conversation."

Vimes looked shocked. "You mean that you haven't spoken to her since you before you killed Voldemort?"

"No, sir," Harry replied.

"Really, Harry," Vimes remonstrated. "As a married man, let me tell you, this is important. You mightn't always say everything you know at once, owing to the danger, but you need to discuss and have an open conversation with her. That is … I mean, you do intend for this relationship to go on, don't you?"

"Yes sir. Very much sir," Harry said.

"Well, Lady Sybill and I …" Vimes' voice trailed off. "Well, I've always found it's much better to have confidence in your partner, Harry. Doing so will enable them to have confidence in you. And if you are honest and open with each other, Harry, the trust and strength that you build will be much more powerful."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, thoughtfully. "How much longer do you think I will be here, sir?"

"Working with Pessimal will take perhaps a week. After that, Lance-Constable Potter, so far as I am concerned, you're finished here."

"Thank you, sir. I'll see to it," Harry said.

"You do that, Potter. Dismissed."

Harry saluted and walked out.

…

Much later that evening, in his room at the back of the inn, Harry handled his PDA carefully, and finally picked it up.

"Hermione, please," he said to the imp. Some interdimensional switches were switched. There was a slight noise of connection.

"He- hello. Hello, Hermione," he said.

"Har- Harry? How is?" her voice broke off.

"It's over," Harry said. His voice was flat.

"Are you sure?" she asked quietly.

"He's gone," Harry said. "Forever."

Her voice nearly breaking, Hermione managed, "And … are you …"

"I'm fine. We're all fine," he said.

He could hear the sound of a hiccup through his PDA and quiet sobbing for a moment.

"Oh Harry ..." she said. "Oh …" Hermione said something incoherent, finally followed by a long sniffle, before she managed, "When will you be home?"

"I'll be home in about 10 days," Harry said. "I've missed you very much, and I love you very much, and…"

"I love you too!" Hermione shouted. "But … do you understand how hard this has been?"

"I know it has, Hermione, and I'm sorry for that," Harry said. "Things have not been easy for either of us, but …"

"But …" she echoed him.

Harry knew what he was going to say next. He was amazingly calm.

Ron had told him a great deal about this moment. "When I proposed to Luna, my tongue got tangled up. I felt butterflies in my stomach … my brain went to mush," he said. Ron had stared over the top of his butterbeer. "It's the most terrifying thing you can ever do, even worse than the war, I think, mate. Your heart palpitates, and you started sweating everywhere. When you ask her to marry you, just open yourself to be the most emotionally naked you can ever be. And those few seconds while you're waiting for a reply … it feels like eternity."

But Harry felt the most calm he had ever felt; and this was not really surprising. It felt like … home.

"But I would like things to be as easy as they can be, from now on. I'd like to get married. I mean, that is, if you'd like to. I haven't been a very good man to you, Hermione, and I'm not promising that I can change all that much," he said. The words were flowing easy, and a great weight seemed to have lifted off of his heart. Everything seemed much easier. "But I recognize how much you mean to me and I don't ever want to risk going off again and knowing that I am alone in the world; the thought that you love me has kept me going this entire time, and it will keep me going forever. So … I'd like to marry you. If you want to."

There was a pause. It was neither brief nor lengthy. It was … appropriate.

When Hermione spoke again, all of the shakiness had left her voice. She spoke with a confidence that seemed to have been missing for some time and had now returned.

"Of course I will marry you," she said. "There has been no one in my life who has ever made me feel as complete as you. I love you so much and I will always love you."

"I'm sorry it took so long to ask you," Harry said. "Ever since I killed Voldemort – the first time, I mean – I've been trying to figure out who I am, and why, and maybe I've found out, and maybe I haven't, but I guess this time I realized there are some things I'll never know, and that's okay. But one thing not okay is that I need to be with you, and you deserve what security I can give you, as well. So … I'd like it done as soon as possible, and I know you deserve the big, giant wedding, big cathedral, the white dress, and all, but I feel like I want to do it as soon as we can ... even as soon as I get back."

"Well, Harry, to be honest, I'd like that too, but there is one consideration, though, and that is the banns," Hermione said.

"What's that?" Harry asked.

"You don't know what banns are?" Hermione asked, askance.

"Um, no, I don't," Harry said. "This is the first time for me to do this, you see."

Hermoine snorted. "Well, Harry, to get married you have to publish 15 days' notice at either the church or a civil registry office that you intend to be married. It's a holdover from an old custom of informing your parents and the village and all, but it's still the law. In most churches in England, the list of banns must be read three times at the church before you are eligible to be married."

"Which means that reporters and the general public can find out about it," Harry said dourly.

"Well, that's right. But the exception is Scotland – you don't have to publish a list of banns in Scotland to get married, you can be married same day with the permission of any authorized celebrant or registrar," Hermoine said.

Harry's heart rose. "Hogwarts is in Scotland. Do you think, perhaps, that Headmistress McGonagall is an authorized celebrant?"

"Of course she is," Hermione said. Harry could almost see her rolling her eyes. "Muggle and Wizarding Marriage Act of 1931. Any member of the Wizengomet in good standing may act as a duly authorized celebrant for a marriage, and must take all necessary and proper precautions to ensure the two parties have no legal, magical, or medical impediment to marriage."

"Do you think, then, that you could get a license from the Ministry and have Minerva perform the services for us as soon as I get back to Hogwarts? If that's acceptable to you, then we will be legally married, as soon as I get back, and in terms of having the big celebration and the white dress and the flower girls and all, we can do when you've had time to plan everything to your liking."

"I think we'll be forced to skip the white dress bit," Hermione said. "But I agree with you that we should do it as soon as possible. Honestly, Harry, I think it might be best for just the two of us to have a simple ceremony quickly. Actually, all we would have to do is fill out formal paperwork, have it signed and witnessed by a member of the Wizengomet, and we'd be married. The service and the celebration is all just for show, and we could do that later."

"Well, I don't think anyone will check your standard of purity that closely these days," Harry said, smirking. "But the idea of having everything formally completed so quickly is a nice one."

"Well, I think the speed is quite important, given that everyone can check my standard of purity just by looking at me, considering that I'm pregnant," Hermione said.

Harry tried to respond to this, but his tongue got tangled up. He could feel that his mouth was opening and shutting, with no words coming out, but he couldn't seem to say anything because of the butterflies in his stomach and the fact that his brain had gone to mush. He felt himself sitting down. His heart was racing, and the PDA seemed much harder to hold now that his palms were sweating profusely.

"Oh – er?" he finally managed.

"Yes, so, I agree, it would be nice to get married soon," Hermione said. "My parents won't really mind if –"

"You – uh – " Harry was still trying to find the parts of his brain that controlled speech. A reset switch had been thrown somewhere.

"I uh what, Harry?" Hermione said smoothly.

"You – you – you – we – how?" he managed.

"Um, the usual way, Harry. You were there at the time – that's how it usually works," Hermione said. "I didn't think I would need to explain this to you, Harry, but sometimes, when a man _really_ loves a woman, and a woman _really _loves a man, you see, they will-"

Harry wasn't going to let her get away with this. "Uh – when?" he interjected.

"Oh, some time ago. Probably before you got the assignment to go to Ankh-Morpork, as best as I can figure," Hermione said. "I'm only just showing now."

"And, and you've, um?" Harry still wasn't fully yet into the coherent world yet.

"Well, the first people I told, actually, were Uncle Remus and Aunt Tonks," Hermione said. "Tonks had been taught some glamours to help cover up the obvious, and Madam Malkin had a line of robes designed to help conceal. I've just started wearing them when I'm in the wizarding world, but I'm trying to spend more and more time in the muggle world at present. My mom and dad know, obviously. They're awfully excited."

The thought of Hermione – and his future child – in danger set Harry's mind to racing and brought him fully back to the coherent. How many Death Eaters were remaining at large? Would Hermione be the target of some whack job that was infatuated with the Boy That Survived? How many aurors could he get on round-the-clock surveillance?

"I think the danger of being attacked by Death Eaters or some kind of whack job is pretty remote, Harry," Hermione continued calmly. "Remus and I went over our security a month ago. The best weapon we have is that no one knows. I haven't told the Weasleys yet, or by now the Daily Prophet would have Rita Skeeter stalking me, I'm sure."

"I'm only here for 10 days," Harry said. "We'll be in touch with Headmistress McGonagall as soon as possible to give her the date of my arrival. I'd like it if you can be there when I arrive. Stay safe until then. And … we're having a baby. Wow."

"Yes. Wow," Hermione said.

"I – I love you," he stammered. "Be safe! No, be really safe! I … maybe I should come back right now…"

He heard her laughter ripple over him; it sounded like sweet music.

"I don't think anything much is going to happen over the next 10 days, and I still need to get the certificates," she said. "In fact, I'll get one of my colleagues at St. Mungo's to do that, since it's pretty common for us to do weddings in delivery rooms, frankly speaking. _You_ be safe and I'll see you soon. Love you."

"I love you too, Hermione. And … baby," Harry said.

The connection died. Harry sat looking at the wall for some time. "Imp?"

"Yeah, waddya want?" the pale green figure stepped out of the PDA.

"I wish to speak with the wizard Rincewind," Harry said.

"Hello?" came a sleepy voice.

"Rincewind? It's Harry," he said tersely.

"Yes? What is it?" Rincewind asked warily.

"All is well here," Harry said. "But I need you to do a favor for me. I'll need you to speak with Dobby, and you should be aware that we'll be switching places in 10 days' time."

…

The sessions with Pessimal had been more productive than Harry had a first thought. Pessimal's methodology and his Gooseberry made collecting data efficient, and Vimes' training had built copper-thought into his formerly clerked mind. Harry had taken two patrols with Pessimal, and saw how they fit into the record keeping. Already, in his mind, he could see that the Auror's department would be purchasing a computer system, and learning some standards. For the first time, he felt, he was ready to return to Ankh-Morpork a true Auror.

Today he had been asked by Vimes to report to the 'Lemonade Factory' as the Watch called their training facility. It was graduation day for 10 new recruits.

He stood, next to last in line, behind a dwarf and in front of a zombie. Names were called. "Potter, Harry James!" came the bellow from Sgt. Colon.

He walked forward, under the watchful eyes of the Patrician. Chevrons were pinned to his uniform. "Corporal Potter," Lord Vetinari said quietly, as he pinned the badge to Harry's shirt front. "I thank you for your service to Ankh-Morpork, and I am not releasing you from it. I am merely placing you on … distant leave. A bit more distant than normal, but you remain one of ours. A member of the Watch."

"Yes, sir," Harry said formally. His back was straight. He was a Watchman.

…

After the short ceremony, he returned to Pseudopolis Yard. Vimes returned the remainder of his galleons, and Harry attempted to return his badge.

"I think perhaps you should keep that, Corporal," Vimes said.

"Yes sir, Commander Vimes," Harry said.

"Potter?" Vimes said, lighting a cigar.

"Yes sir?" Harry asked.

"People who've fought with me get to call me Mister," Vimes said. He offered his hand.

"Yes sir, Mister Vimes," Harry said, beaming.

The two of them stepped out of Vimes' office. Lines of Watchmen filled the corridor. "Watch! Atten-SHUN!" shouted Captain Carrot. The two lines of Watchmen clicked their heels and stood at attention. Harry went numb. These were the men, the women, and trolls and dwarfs and all the rest, that he had come for. That he was leaving behind, but would always, in a very significant way, be a part of. But there was a very significant person – two, he corrected himself – waiting for him.

Angua and Carrot accompanied him as far as the gates of Unseen University. Before they could say anything he turned to them abruptly. "Captain. Sergeant. It has been my privilege to serve with you," he said.

The two beamed. "It has been out privilege to serve with you as well, Corporal Potter," Carrot said. "Keep watching."

Harry smiled. "I'll do that."

The High Energy Magic building was already a-hum. Harry returned his PDA to Ponder Stibbons, and nodded to the rest of the wizards. This time, at least, he had gone to the bathroom before departing. Stepping into the pentagram, he felt himself turned into a six-dimensional knot …

… and finally arrived at the Great Hall.

He whimpered, slightly, but made it to his feet. As his vision returned to normal, he saw the person he was looking for outside the pentagram. She smiled at him and he smiled back.

Carefully breaking free from the bonds of magic, Harry took Hermione into his arms. "Hi," he said quietly.

"Hi," she said back. He could feel the warmth of her stomach, slightly protruding with their child. It felt … wonderful.

He looked over her shoulder, to see Dobby waving enthusiastically at him. With Dobby, along with Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks, were Hermione's parents.

He turned to Rincewind. "I hope your stay was as comfortable as it could be," he said.

Rincewind smiled. He actually appeared to have put on some weight. "All things considered it was quite good."

"Are you going back at once?" Harry asked.

"As soon as possible, although it is safest if we have to wait for about one hour," Rincewind said. "It clears the thaumic passages."

"In that case, would you mind joining us quickly?" Harry said. He led Hermione by the hand to the faculty table, set up at the end of the Great Hall as it always was. Headmistress McGonagall beamed at them. The small party surrounded them.

"I am always pleased to see a union between two of my former students, but perhaps today I am most pleased to see this union most of all," McGonagall said.

"Harry James Potter, do you agree that you come to us, the age of majority, of your own free will, a bachelor, with no impediments to this marriage, and with the intention of being a good husband to your bride?" she began.

"I do," Harry affirmed.

"Hermione Jane Granger, do you agree that you come to us, the age of majority, of your own free will, a spinster, with no impediments to this marriage, and with the intention of being a good bride to your husband?" McGonagall continued.

"I do," Hermione said. Small tears had formed by the corner of her eyes but she was smiling.

"The vow of marriage is an important one, and it is a binding one," McGonagall said, reading her way down the parchment. "Two houses come together, but a third is created, and new lives are forever intertwined. Seeing that this union is a lawful one and the parties willing, I ask the couple to pledge their love to each other."

Harry and Hermione turned to face each other. Harry felt … like giggling. Hermione went first. "I had written a great deal about what I was going to say to you, Harry, with, oh, all sorts of classical allusions and observations, but … maybe I don't need to say it all, now. It's just enough to say that I love you, Harry, and I always will. Maybe those are words enough."

Harry smiled. "I will be your friend, Hermione, and always love you. But I do have a few words to add: Nitwit. Oddment. Blubber. Tweak."

The party seemed somewhat confused, but Hermione just beamed with adoration.

"Do you have the rings?" McGonagall asked.

Harry turned to Remus, who had been informed by Dobby how to obtain them from the Potter vault at Gringotts. Remus handed one to Harry, and one to Hermione, as Tonks' hair shimmered with blue and green streaks.

"Please place a ring on your partner's finger, with the words, 'With this ring, I thee wed'" McGongall instructed. "Continue to hold your partners' hand after you have placed the ring on their finger."

Harry and Hermione did so, and McGonagall waved her wand over the interlaced hands. "By the power vested in me as Chief Witch of the Wizengamot, I hereby pronounce you man and wife, and with my magic seal and confirm this union," McGonagall said. A zipping of electricity ran through the room. Harry and Hermione felt themselves bathed in warm, glowing light.

"You may now kiss your bride, Potter, though I believe you've already some experience in that regard," McGonagall said with a bit of chaff.

Harry and Hermione faced each other, eyes bright. Their lips touched, and then they crushed into each other to the applause of the general assembly.

Even Rincewind clapped. "Well, I am going," he said. "Congratulations, although I greatly hope never to be here again."

Harry smiled. "Understood. Thank you for all your help."

Rincewind smiled and walked to the pentagram, closely followed by the luggage. With a 'pop' he turned into a six-dimensional knot and departed.

Hermione's parents looked askance at the pentagram's power. "It's amazing … it's magic," Hermione's father said.

But Harry was looking into the eyes of his wife. "No, sir." He patted Hermione's baby bump. "This is."

"_All tragedies are finished by a death, All comedies are ended by a marriage." –_ George Gordon, Lord Byron.

…

**Author's Endnotes**

So that's that. A Happy 2007 to everyone – it's looking like a beautiful dawn here. I will be soon posting a slightly edited version of this at Portkey to take advantage of some changes I have decided to incorporate. When I started writing HP:COM, I had just finished the Fifth Elephant and Monstrous Regiment, and Thud! had not yet been released. Now that I have finished them, I think I will make a few changes to the Watch's ranks, and re-set the time period for the story to occur just after Sam Vimes and Company return to Ankh-Morpork from Koom Valley. I do not think I will change much about the Witches' bit, despite some interesting changes to Tiffany Aching from Wintersmith.

Overall, this was a fun piece to write, and it took much longer than expected owing to all of the calamities I've personally had in 2005/06, but I look forward to a healthy, better 2007. I doubt I'll write another crossover in this vein – I've a few plot bunnies in my head for some other potential HP adventures – but this seems pretty complete to me. (Always open to criticism.)

_Chardvignon._


End file.
